


Independent Study

by SomewheresSword



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU ootp, F/M, Independent Harry Potter, M/M, Powerful Harry, Slow Burn, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 144,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewheresSword/pseuds/SomewheresSword
Summary: Dumbledore doesn't make it in time for Harry's trial, and the outcome is very different. Harry is expelled, his wand snapped.But he refuses to give up. And he is done waiting around for Albus Dumbledore to give him information.Deciding to take his life into his own hands, Harry asks for training from several Order members, preparing himself to fight Voldemort while the whole wizarding world believes he's helpless and back in the muggle world.Meanwhile, his friends are at Hogwarts, tackling their own problems in the form of Dolores Umbridge. Harry hadn't expected the separation to be so difficult - or for a certain mischievous redhead to make the waiting game they'd entered into so very excruciating.He might have lost his home in Hogwarts, but with Sirius and Remus around, Harry begins to learn that rebuilding a family isn't as hard as he'd anticipated.
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 802
Kudos: 1809
Collections: BL favorites, Creative Chaos Discord Recs, Not to be misplaced, Serial (Time) Killers, Works worth reading a million times over, Works worth reading again and again, fics that i love so much





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! I wrote this whole thing in the last month while going through some (non-covid) health stuff, and it grew a lot longer than I anticipated. But it's finished, so posting should be pretty regular on alternate days. 
> 
> This entire fic is basically my love letter to George Weasley that sort of grew arms and legs and a cohesive plotline. I hope you enjoy it!

Expelled.

The word echoed through Harry’s head from the moment it left Fudge’s lips. He expected things to turn numb, dazed, like he’d heard about with extreme instances of shock. On the contrary, his whole world became sharper — he could see every face in the Wizengamot crowd, from the horrified gaze of Amelia Bones to the smug satisfaction curling at the lips of Dolores Umbridge. He couldn’t make words out of the swarm of murmurs that erupted after the gavel went down, but he remembered every horrifying second of having to surrender his wand to the aurors and watch Fudge snap it in his pudgy, liver-spotted hands. It sparked when it broke, and Harry held back a flinch, feeling the aftershocks reverberating under his own skin. He kept his head held high, his jaw square. He would not break in front of these people, not even for a second. He owed himself that much.

When he was dismissed, Harry turned on his heel and left the chamber, stride confident even as he forced his shoulders not to shake. People were calling his name. He ignored them. He had nothing to say to any of them now.

In the corridor outside, the first person Harry saw was Mr Weasley — who went chalk-white at the look on Harry’s face, and the confirmation in the mutters of the dispersing Wizengamot members. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, turning away from the redhead. _Do not break, Potter_ , he told himself firmly. _You have faced worse_.

In turning away, he noticed the other half of his welcoming committee. Albus Dumbledore, in a remarkably subdued lilac and silver robe, his blue eyes for once bereft of their twinkle. “Harry, my boy,” he began, “I’m so sorry. I was kept ignorant of the time change until it was too late — by the time I arrived, the courtroom was closed.”

Harry kept his face blank, even as he wanted to scoff in the old man’s face. At last, the great Albus Dumbledore’s habit of swooping in at the last second and saving the day had backfired on him. At least no one had died, this time.

“I will speak to the Minister — I’m sure he’ll understand how dangerous it is for you to be without a wand and away from school, even if he refuses to admit what sits so plainly before him.”

“No.” Harry surprised himself by speaking — surprised the headmaster, too, by the looks of it. Nonetheless, he continued. “No, thank you, sir. I would much rather you come back with me, so we can have a long overdue talk.”

“Harry, really, I know it’s been a stressful day—“ Arthur Weasley stuttered, reaching out with a hand that fell short before it could squeeze Harry’s shoulder. Harry continued to stare down the bearded headmaster, watching several expressions flit across his face.

“If this is something you would like to discuss in private, I understand, though I fear time is of the essence,” Dumbledore said eventually. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“What’s done is done. They won’t go back on their ruling.” He could still vividly recall the number of triumphant faces — there were too many people in the pocket of the enemy for him to expect fair play in that courtroom. It wasn’t worth the effort trying. He’d expected this outcome, deep down, from the second he’d had the letter confirming his hearing. He knew how this played out. He was Harry Potter; he always faced the worst, in the end. “Let’s go home.” He worried if they dawdled here much longer, the press would get wind of the result and he’d be ambushed before he could escape. If he faced Rita Skeeter right now, he couldn’t promise she would come out of it unscathed.

Without waiting for confirmation from the two adults, Harry set off down the corridor in search of a floo, his mind already whirring. Dread began to build in his stomach — not for himself and his future as an unqualified wizard, but for the hysterics he was likely to face from those waiting from him back at Grimmauld.

He appeared in the living room of Grimmauld Place, stepping aside for the headmaster and Mr Weasley to follow. A grimace crossed his face — the room was full of people, staring anxiously at the fireplace. All of them jumped when he arrived. His face must have said it all; Hermione choked out a sob, her hands flying to her mouth. Sirius cursed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a private word with the headmaster,” Harry declared, barely glancing back at Dumbledore before he made for the door. No one stopped him. He vaguely heard Mr Weasley murmuring comforting words to his wife as she fell into his arms, but then the door shut, and the commotion was muffled.

Harry led Dumbledore through to the drawing room, the burn-marred tapestry of the House of Black glaring at him from the walls. When the door was closed, Harry turned to the elderly wizard, folding his arms over his chest. “You owe me a lot of information, sir, and I want the truth,” he declared without hesitation.

“I beg your pardon, my boy?”

“Don’t.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been stringing me along one clue at a time, watching me stumble in and out of dangerous situations like they were nothing more than a game, never giving me more information than I needed to gather the bare minimum — just enough to have me haring into dangerous situations without so much as a second thought for the consequences. Often, dragging my friends with me. Don’t try to deny it; I might have been naive back then, but I know better now. Keeping the Philosopher’s Stone in the school was intentional — a test for me, and bait for Voldemort. The Flamels had kept it safe for over six hundred years, I refuse to believe they struggled so suddenly.”

“Harry, I—“

“Second year, knowing what I do now about the wards you’ve kept on the Dursleys, you must have known about Dobby the house elf. If you had no idea about Riddle’s diary, that I can believe, though it does concern me what can happen right under your nose. But you sat back and watched as the whole school declared me evil, waiting to see what I would do, and when I risked my life again you merely sent Fawkes to pop along and stop me from getting myself killed. Third year was another merry information chase, with a solution that you seemed to have worked out far too conveniently, and we all know how my fourth year ended.” That, finally, got a flinch from the old man. “I refuse to believe you had no idea one of your oldest friends was an impostor the entire school year.”

“It is easy to make assumptions in hindsight, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“And it’s easy to play with peoples’ lives when you’re not the one suffering the fall-out,” Harry retorted evenly. “You’ve been having me watched the entire summer, Professor. Without my knowledge. You’ve been deliberately keeping me oblivious, making my friends deny me information. There’s clearly something bigger going on — and I’m not talking about the Ministry using me as a scapegoat to bury their heads in the sand. I know my dreams aren’t normal. Whatever Voldemort is up to, he wants me to be curious about it. And since you’re telling me _jack shit_ , you want me to be curious, too. Well, I’m telling you, that ends now. If you’d told me from the beginning of the summer that I had guards, this could have been avoided. I wouldn’t have gone so far from the house. I would have coordinated with my guards to make sure everyone was safe. I would have _known_ that something was amiss when no one came to help, rather than assuming I was on my own again, because _God forbid_ I rely on anyone but myself. If your trials and tribulations have taught me anything, Dumbledore, they’ve taught me that much. But that’s the thing, see — they’ve taught me not to rely on you, either. And today’s farce of a hearing proved that. I knew from the moment I walked into that courtroom what I would be facing; a blind man could see they’d made up their minds before it had even begun.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, for once sounding his advanced age. “Harry, my boy, I can see now that my actions have upset you. But I assure you, I have never kept information from you for my own entertainment, like you seem to believe. I merely wanted to avoid burdening you while you are so young, when others can carry that burden a while longer.”

“Well, that’s worked out wonderfully, hasn’t it,” Harry replied dryly. “Bang up job you’ve done there, Headmaster. No burdens here.”

“I can never apologise enough for what happened today,” Dumbledore said. “And I will do my utmost to correct the injustice you have suffered.”

“Yeah, we both know that isn’t going to work. Fudge doesn’t want me _armed and dangerous_ ,” Harry pointed out derisively, quoting one of the Prophet’s many disparaging articles. “I don’t want you to try and get me back to school, Professor. I’m not even demanding you induct me into the Order. All I want is for you to be upfront with me about the things that concern me. Merlin knows Voldemort won’t leave me alone just because I’ve been expelled. And I would like to know why.”

At that, the headmaster tensed visibly. “Harry, that is dangerous information to give you. You’ve said it yourself; Voldemort wants you curious. Have you considered he is merely using you to find out his own answers?”

“Clearly he _has_ the answers, seeing as he’s already set on killing me,” came Harry’s retort. “He’s taunting me, not encouraging me. After my upbringing, I’m well aware of the difference,” he added drily. “Tell me, headmaster. Why me? What’s so special about me?”

There was a long, stagnant silence. Dumbledore’s dim blue eyes bored into Harry’s, searching for something Harry wasn’t sure he would ever find. Eventually, the old man’s lips pursed.

“Before you were born, there was a prophecy. Spoken in a room that only contained myself and the prophet. Unfortunately, we were both unaware of the Death Eater lurking at the door, looking for information to take back to his master. He only heard part of the prophecy — but it was enough for Voldemort to set his sights on you specifically. Enough for him to learn that _‘the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’_. There is more to the prophecy, but that was information enough. Voldemort made an attempt on your life, and it backfired; we may never know for certain why that is. But it was enough to make him sure that you were the one who would bring about his downfall, and he has been determined to kill you ever since.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, taking in the information carefully. He wasn’t _completely_ blindsided — it had always been clear Voldemort believed Harry specifically was a threat. He hadn’t expected a prophecy to be the root of it, though; most Divination was a crock of shit, surely Voldemort didn’t put stock in it? He said as much to Dumbledore, who shook his head.

“True Divination is ancient magic, and this was very much a true prophecy. Voldemort knew that as well as I.” The aged wizard perched on the edge of the desk in the corner, looking haggard. “I knew I would have to tell you eventually, but I convinced myself we had more time. I wanted you to have as close to a normal childhood as you could manage.”

“All due respect, sir; if you truly wanted that, you’d never have sent me to the Dursleys,” Harry bit out in reply. Something sad flickered across the man’s face.

“Perhaps. But everything I did, I did with your wellbeing in mind, Harry.”

That felt difficult to believe, but Harry didn’t respond. He mulled the words of the prophecy over in his head once more. “What’s the rest of it? The prophecy? You said there was more.”

Dumbledore grew hesitant again. “I do not know if it’s safe to give you that information, when you’ve said yourself that Voldemort seems to have access to your mind.”

“Only to my dreams,” Harry argued. “And _you_ said it wasn’t even the important bit. Voldemort knows enough of the prophecy to have made plenty of moves based on it.” There was something deeper in the headmaster’s gaze. Harry peered at him. “Unless you’re intentionally keeping it from him because you want him to think it contains the key to his defeat. That you know something he doesn’t.”

The old man was suspiciously silent. Harry snorted. “Typical. Tell me, Professor; what’s worse? Voldemort knowing the rest of the prophecy, or all the people he might kill in order to find out?” They couldn’t even be sure he’d be able to pluck knowledge out of Harry’s head. “Hang on, if Voldemort could read my mind, surely he would have found me at my relatives’? Or even here? Even if there were wards on Privet Drive, I spent half the summer wandering Wisteria Walk, anyone could’ve picked me off there, guards or no.”

“The nature of your connection with the Dark Lord is unknown — it was formed in unique circumstances, after all.”

“So you have no idea how it works, you’re just using it as an excuse to keep me in the dark,” Harry translated bluntly. “Right, now we’ve cleared that up — tell me the rest of the prophecy.”

Dumbledore frowned deeply, but after several moments seemed to realise Harry was not going to give in. “ _‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives’._ That is the full extent of the prophecy, my boy,” Dumbledore relented. “You can see now why it’s so important Voldemort not get his hands on such information.”

Quite frankly, Harry _didn’t_ see why that was important — Voldemort was already pretty set on killing Harry, regardless of whether Harry would be the one to kill him or not. The ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ thing was interesting. “Were you ever going to help me figure out what that power might be, or were you hoping it might come to me in a dream, or something?” he asked wryly, watching the taken-aback expression cross the headmaster’s features.

“You’re only just fifteen, my boy — it seemed cruel to place such a burden on your shoulders. I planned to give you as much time as you needed to work on your skills.”

“The burden was there regardless of whether I knew about it!” Harry argued. “All you were doing is making it more likely that people would die when I went into these situations unprepared! Voldemort isn’t going to _give me time_.” Harry scowled. “I assume since I’m apparently the only one who can do it, a good old killing curse to the face won’t do the job?”

“I have strong evidence that Voldemort has taken great pains to achieve what he believes to be immortality. I am still researching the exact methods involved,” Dumbledore admitted. “But no, regular means will not kill the Dark Lord.”

“Fantastic.” Harry grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not going back to school, after all.” As if he could just sit around and go to class and play quidditch when he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. As if Dumbledore had been happy to _let him_. When would the headmaster have deemed it ‘appropriate’ for Harry to have this knowledge? How many people would have ended up like Cedric Diggory?

Harry knew the only reason he was getting so much information now was because the headmaster was still reeling from his expulsion. As soon as the man regained his composure, he’d close off again, and Harry would be on his own.

“Your studies are important, Harry,” Dumbledore insisted. “I’m sure we will be able to find a way for you to continue them. The Order will take care of the war effort.”

“Because that’s been going _so well_ up until now,” Harry muttered under his breath. “No, Headmaster — if I’m the one who has to kill him, then I refuse to let you be the one making all the decisions and expecting everyone else to play along. We can discuss what happens next, but it’s exactly that; a discussion. With _everybody_ involved. This impacts the whole Order after all, and the Weasleys. If they’re going to be risking their lives for me, they deserve a say. I’m sure they’ll all have plenty of opinions on what happened today, after all.”

He felt a little bad about having left Mr Weasley to explain things by himself, especially when the man likely didn’t know much more than the bare minimum.

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Very well,” he relented, getting to his feet. “Let us gather in the kitchen. I’m sure Molly has been cooking up a storm while we’ve been occupied.”

Knowing how much Mrs Weasley used cooking to distract herself from stress, Harry began to wonder if there would even be enough room on the table for it all.

Dumbledore waved his wand, and the door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flesh-coloured string quickly disappear overhead. Had Dumbledore warded the room while they talked? Had the twins heard anything?

The house was silent as Harry followed the headmaster back into the main hall, and through to the kitchen — there they found everyone gathered around the table, which was indeed heaving with food. They were tense and silent, and all eyes were on Harry the moment he stepped through the door.

“Well,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I suppose Mr Weasley told you I got expelled, then.”

“Oh, Harry!” A brown blur filled his vision, and suddenly Hermione was squeezing the life out of him. “There has to be a way to appeal, or something! It’s completely illegal; you were defending yourself, and your cousin already knew about magic!” She glanced over Harry’s shoulder, towards the headmaster, as if expecting him to declare he’d already fixed the situation. When there was no such declaration, Harry felt her shudder.

“They’ve already snapped my wand,” he told her. “Pretty sure they’re not going to bother with an appeal.”

Several gasps went up around the room.

“They snapped it there and then?” Tonks asked, horrified. “Those bastards! Usually there’s three feet of paperwork before we can even _confiscate_ a wand, let alone destroy it.”

“As always, I’m a special case,” came Harry’s wry response. He gently untangled himself from Hermione’s grasp and urged her towards her seat beside Ron, whose freckles stood out stark on his pale face.

“That’s awful, mate,” he croaked. Harry shrugged.

“Are you… alright, pup?” Sirius asked tentatively, coming to sling an arm over his godson’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

“It wasn’t safe,” Harry reminded. “And I’m fine, really. Honest,” he added, when Sirius’ face wasn’t the only skeptical one in the room. “I sort of expected this to happen. My luck, I was half expecting to be chucked into Azkaban.” Beside him, he felt Sirius flinch.

“They couldn’t do that!” Mrs Weasley blurted.

“I’m sure they could if they tried hard enough,” Harry pointed out.

“So… what happens now?” Sirius’ hesitant question was directed not at Harry, but Dumbledore, who had moved to his usual seat at the head of the table. Everyone in the room looked at him, expecting him to hold the answers. It made Harry’s stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Harry and I have agreed that it’s not in our best interests to attempt to change the Minister’s mind at this time,” the headmaster declared, as if he and Harry had already had a nice little sit down over the topic. It took everything in Harry not to snort.

“But Albus, where is he to go? He’s safest at school — you can’t send him back to those muggles, not without a wand!” Mrs Weasley protested. “He’s welcome at the Burrow, of course—“

“He can stay here with me,” Sirius argued, leaving Harry’s side to glare Mrs Weasley down. “The house is safe, I’m here all the time. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

“Or encourage him into it,” Mrs Weasley retorted sharply.

“I’m not going back to the Dursleys’,” Harry declared, his voice carrying over their raised voices. “Let me get that very clear right now.”

“I will begin searching for a way to get the expulsion overturned without the Minister’s permission,” Dumbledore said, as if he’d never been interrupted. “Perhaps a loophole, or a codicil. In the mean time, I’m sure I can arrange for Harry to get permission to at least carry a wand again. As for his living arrangements — that will depend entirely on the outcome of that conversation.”

“We can always sneak the lad down to Knockturn, get him a wand off the grid,” Kingsley Shacklebolt suggested. “Or send an owl to Ollivander. He’s a good man, he’ll help us out.”

“I suppose now is a good time to admit that I don’t need a wand?” Harry piped up casually. Everyone in the room froze.

“You what, boy?” Moody barked, electric blue eye fixed on Harry. Harry shrugged.

“Don’t need a wand. Haven’t for a while now.” With a wave of his hand, he summoned a plate of sandwiches towards him, helping himself to a couple. Everyone stared at him, gobsmacked.

“But… Harry — wandless magic is really difficult. We don’t even get taught it til seventh year, and even then just for little things!” Hermione lectured, as if she hadn’t just seen him use it.

“Yeah but no one told me that,” he reasoned. “So I just sort of— did it. I had so many incidents of it before Hogwarts, when I didn’t know what magic was; I wondered if I could learn to be a bit more intentional with that. So I started practicing, and… it came pretty easy. I’m still stronger with a wand, but that’s probably just because I use it more. If I work on it, I’ll be fine without. I just never did it in front of people because I never saw anyone else use it and I didn’t want to be weird.” If the parseltongue debacle had been anything to go by, he’d learned that the wizarding world didn’t like people with unique talents.

Hermione looked like he’d just burned down the entire Hogwarts library in front of her. Indeed, several others in the room looked utterly astonished, including Dumbledore. Sirius and Remus were both beaming with pride, while the twins had scheming expressions on their faces that made Harry stifle the urge to grin.

“Here’s the plan,” he said, turning back to the group and pointedly ignoring Dumbledore before the headmaster could try and take back control of the conversation. “I don’t need a new wand, and I don’t want anyone getting in trouble trying to get me one. It’s exactly what the Ministry would expect, they’ll be on the lookout. And I’m not going back to the Dursleys’, under any circumstances. I’ll stay here, under the Fidelius charm and the Unplottable wards and everything else the Blacks have no doubt smothered this house in so no one will ever find me, and I’ll train, because Voldemort isn’t going to leave me alone just because I’ve been expelled.”

“But you’re just a boy!” Mrs Weasley protested. Harry huffed.

“A boy who will be dead the next time I set foot in the wizarding world if I continue being so defenceless,” he pointed out, slightly sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to hurt the motherly woman’s feelings, but he was done being coddled. “I’ll have plenty of work to get on with by myself, especially with the Black library at my disposal, but if anyone wants to offer their time or expertise I’d be grateful for it.” Here he glanced at the trio of aurors across the table. Tonks smirked at him.

“We’d be happy to put you through your paces, kid!” she declared cheerfully.

“Are you sure you want to stay here, in this dreary old place, Harry dear?” Mrs Weasley continued, worrying the edge of her apron in her hands. “There’s plenty of room at the Burrow, it’ll be no trouble at all to have you — you can even floo over here if you want to see Sirius in the day.” That looked like it caused her physical pain to offer, and Harry attempted a kind smile.

“I appreciate the offer, Mrs Weasley, but it’ll be safer for everyone if I’m here.”

“Harry’s my godson, and he’s staying with me,” Sirius agreed firmly. Mrs Weasley turned on him, puffing up angrily.

“It’s not either of your decisions,” Harry cut in firmly, before the argument could really kick off. Both of them stared at him, shocked. “It’s mine. I’m not choosing one of you over the other — I’m choosing the best strategic option. And if you don’t like it, I can always leave and go live in the muggle world. I was raised there, I still have records there. It would only take a moment for me to go back and pretend the wizarding world never existed.”

His voice was hard, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. They didn’t need to know that Harry would never even consider that option — even if he had to retreat to the muggle world, he’d never abandon magic.

Sirius gaped like a fish, spluttering with several failed attempts to talk. Dumbledore was pale behind his beard. Harry looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not a student anymore, Professor Dumbledore. But I have a job to do, and it’s in all your best interests if you sit back and let me do it. I’m fed up with everyone arguing about my life like I don’t even get a say in it. If you keep trying, I’ll leave.”

All around the room, cupboards began to rattle. The temperature dropped several degrees. Harry stared the headmaster down, until he got a nod of assent.

“As you wish, my boy,” Dumbledore said sadly. “You will stay here, then.”

“Good. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m dying to get out of these robes,” Harry said with a grimace, tugging at his starched collar. He gathered a few more sandwiches and some crisps on a plate, snagged a glass of pumpkin juice, then left the kitchen; its occupants were too bewildered to do anything but stare after him as he went.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry kept quiet as he hurried up the stairs; the last thing he wanted to do right now was wake Mrs Black. His pulse raced as he shut the door to the room he shared with Ron, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. Fuck. Had he really just done that?

He had really just done that.

He’d called the headmaster out on everything that had built up in the back of his mind over the years, the growing mountain of suspicions and questions and things that never quite added up. More than that, he’d revealed the one thing he’d kept secret from _everyone_. He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about his wandless magic, or Sirius, _anyone_. He’d wanted to keep it to himself, both for fear of having another thing to make him unusual — and as a backup, in case the worst ever happened.

Well, the worst had happened.

Actually, that was a lie. Things could’ve been worse. He could be in Azkaban, or forced back to the Dursleys’. He might be expelled and wandless, but at least he still had his friends around him. His family, of a sorts.

Fuck. He was _expelled_.

The gravity of the situation was just beginning to set in as the adrenaline faded — but he wasn’t given too long to dwell on it, when all of a sudden two loud cracks sounded one straight after the other. Fred and George appeared in the middle of the room, and turned to face Harry with identical grins.

“Our little Harry,” Fred sniffed, wiping mock-tears from his face. “All grown up and backchatting the headmaster. _So proud_.”

“Forget Dumbledore!” George exclaimed, brown eyes round with awe. “Did you see the way he talked to _Mum_?” He looked at Harry, shaking his head incredulously. “Never seen the likes of it before.”

Harry couldn’t help himself; he laughed. “I hope I didn’t upset her too much.” He hadn’t wanted to be so sharp, but he just couldn’t take being coddled. Even from someone with the best intentions. Not today.

“She’ll be too busy fretting about your expulsion to worry about that,” George assured him.

“And if she starts being funny with you, we can always give her something to focus on,” Fred chimed in, grinning. Then his smile faltered, his eyes growing serious. “You alright, mate? Really?”

“Eh.” Harry held a hand up in a side to side gesture, shrugging. “Probably not. Once it sets in. But like I said, I was expecting this. That courtroom…” He shuddered, running a hand through his hair. “They knew what they wanted before they had me there. Fudge was always going to get his way.”

Both the twins scowled. “Bet he wasn’t expecting you to be the second coming of Merlin,” George teased, making Harry blush. “All wandless magic and whatnot. Wish I could see his face when he finds out!”

“With any luck, he won’t for a while,” Harry retorted. “It’s better if everyone thinks I’m defenceless.”

“Element of surprise,” Fred agreed with a knowing nod. “Don’t need to tell us about that.” He winked, then paused, cocking his head. The sound of footsteps up the stairs could be heard faintly outside.

“That’ll be Ron and Hermione,” Harry muttered, letting out a long breath.

“Brace yourself,” George agreed, winking. He reached out, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “Want us to distract them?”

Harry appreciated the offer, but he shook his head. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Atta boy,” George said, his hand lingering a moment more. His smile softened. Harry’s chest tightened. “Give us a yell if you need us, yeah?”

With that, he stepped back beside his twin, and they disappeared just in time; the door swung wide open, Hermione’s tear-streaked face appearing. Ron was right behind her, and Ginny was at his side, her lower lip swollen where she’d been biting it anxiously.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione wailed once again. “Don’t worry — Professor Dumbledore said he’s going to do everything he can to get the decision overturned. They can’t do this to you, it’s completely unprecedented. They just have to let you come back to school!”

“They’re the Ministry, Hermione; they don’t have to do anything they don’t want to,” Harry pointed out, clasping her shoulders to stop her from smothering him in another hug. “It’s alright, really. I’ll be fine.”

“But— but your OWLs!”

“You really think I would’ve gotten through a whole school year and been able to take my OWLs disaster-free? With my track record?” he joked. Ron snorted. “Look on the bright side; with any luck, this means you’ll have a nice, normal year without any of my shenanigans distracting you from a perfect set of Os.” Harry attempted a grin. Hermione’s face crumpled.

“But you’ll be here all alone!”

“I won’t be alone. I’ve got Sirius,” Harry reminded her. “And whoever in the Order can spare the time. I won’t just sit around here reading Quidditch Weekly, I promise.”

“I’ll owl you all my class notes,” Hermione declared, squaring her shoulders and wiping her eyes. “And a revision timetable. Even if it takes some time for Dumbledore to get you back, you won’t fall behind.”

Harry didn’t have the heart to point out that Dumbledore wasn’t going to get him back — and he had bigger priorities than studying fifth year classes.

“Hermione, I don’t think there’s an owl strong enough to carry all your class notes,” Ron piped up with a weak chuckle. Hermione let out a strange sort of hiccuping laugh-sob, turning to the tall redhead.

“You joke now, Ronald Weasley, but if Harry’s not there it just means I’ve got more time to make sure _you’re_ working hard.”

Ron grimaced. Beside him, Ginny laughed. “You’ll be begging for some Harry Potter shenanigans by Easter, big brother,” she teased. She ducked around him, bumping Harry’s elbow shyly. “Was it awful? Being in front of the whole Wizengamot like that? Dad said they pulled together a full criminal hearing.”

Harry had assumed that not every underage magic hearing was that dramatic. The Potter luck strikes again. “It was… not brilliant,” he admitted. His stomach churned when he thought about sitting back in that chair, facing down the group of witches and wizards while Fudge tore apart his character, his mental state and any alibi he might have had.

“Mate, I can’t believe you talked to Dumbledore like that,” Ron said, blue eyes wide.

“You should’ve heard what I said to him in private.” Harry grinned sheepishly. That had felt good, regardless of how foolish it might have been.

“Oh, Harry!” This time Hermione’s words had a distinct tone of disapproval, and the rest of them laughed. “The headmaster only wants what’s best for you.”

“He’s not my headmaster anymore, Hermione,” Harry pointed out. He paused. All of them stared at each other, the enormity of the situation beginning to set in. Suddenly, Ron gave him a mutinous look.

“You don’t have to do Potions with Snape ever again,” he declared jealously. Harry laughed.

“Thank God for that. At least now you can partner with Hermione, though.” Then a thought occurred. “Poor Neville.”

“I’ll still partner with Neville,” Hermione assured.

“Oi!”

“You’re far less likely to blow up the classroom than he is, Ron.”

“But who will I partner with?”

Harry thought about it — it was true, with him gone the class would be odd numbers. He smirked. “Maybe Snape will work with you himself.”

Ginny cackled at the horrified look on her brother’s face. “Oh, I’d pay money to see that,” she enthused.

“Mate, look, I’m sure Dumbledore will get you back — there’s still a couple weeks til term starts,” Ron started, alarmed by the prospect of having to work with Snape. Harry laughed at his friend’s splutters, shrugging off his robe and sinking back onto his bed.

Hopefully, that had headed off the worst of the explosion.

.-.-.

Harry was left alone for the long hours before dinner; Hermione dragged Ron and Ginny off to go help clean the drawing room, muttering something about giving Harry time to come to terms with things. Harry figured she thought he was waiting to be alone to have a meltdown, that he was being far too jovial about the situation.

He wasn’t going to have a meltdown. He was sad, yes — Hogwarts was the best home he’d ever known, and the knowledge that he was no longer welcome there twisted like a knife in his gut. But his brain was buzzing with far too many other things; the prophecy, and his plans for the future, and how Voldemort might react to this turn of events. He was being thrust into the real world a little earlier than expected, but he was ready to face it head on. The best weapon he had right now was to allow people to underestimate him. That meant he was on a tight timeline to learn as much as possible before he was forced to show his hand. With him out of school, Voldemort might not wait until the end of the school year to have his big showdown.

Harry shook his head, snickering to himself. Who was he kidding; Voldemort was the biggest drama queen he knew, of _course_ he would follow tradition and wait. The only other likely change was if he decided to attack Harry on Halloween instead, finish things how they began.

Harry would be ready. The Potter luck had run out in this particular occasion, and he couldn’t trust it to carry him through any longer. He couldn’t trust the headmaster to keep him running through his merry little obstacle course until he was ready for Harry to face true danger. There wasn’t time for that. People would die.

So he took the time to change into comfortable clothes, resolutely ignoring the Gryffindor uniform crumpled in his trunk. He refused to think about how he didn’t need it anymore.

Then he laid down on his bed, stared at the ceiling, and let all his thoughts come rushing forward from the corner of his mind he’d shoved them to. Every doubt and fear and worry, the enormous wave of sadness at the loss of his wand. He might be capable enough without it, but it was the first thing he’d ever owned that made him _truly_ feel like a wizard. Made him believe that maybe, there was a place he belonged after all.

He wondered what would happen to the pieces. Hagrid had been allowed to keep his, after all. Would they mail them back to Harry? Or had they already disposed of them somehow?

He rolled onto his side, hugging his pillow against the gnawing ache in his chest. He’d spent all morning telling himself not to cry, not to break.

He was alone now. He could give himself that much.

.-.-.-.

Dinner was an awkward affair, to put it bluntly. Everyone was walking on eggshells around Harry — between the result of the trial and the way he’d acted in the mini Order meeting after, they didn’t seem to know how to treat him. Sirius was bouncing violently between too-bright smiles and concerned frowns, unsure which would be best received by his godson, talking too much but saying very little. Remus, on the other hand, was more silent than ever, watching Harry sadly. That was almost worse — what was he thinking, Harry wondered. Was he imagining how Harry’s parents might react? Thinking how disappointed James Potter would be that his son would never graduate school?

Harry couldn’t look him in the eye, after he had that thought.

Mrs Weasley seemed to have been both cooking and crying for the entire time Harry was in his room. She was red-eyed and frazzled as she served plate after plate of food, stopping regularly to hug Harry around the shoulders and kiss him on the head, muttering how sorry she was about everything, how it would all be alright in the end.

The rest of the Order had left, which Harry was grateful for. He didn’t know them nearly well enough to want them there at such a raw time. And he was especially glad Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.

The only ones acting even remotely normally were the twins; summoning things across the table, making a show of their ability to use magic as of-age wizards, trying to sneak their prank sweets into Ron’s dinner or slip potions into Ginny’s drink. Their mother tried to scold them, but her heart wasn’t in it, not with all her concern focused on Harry.

At least, until Harry met George’s eye across the table, brown gaze dancing with mischief, and he decided to rise to the challenge as the son of a Marauder should. Twitching his fingers, he summoned the plate of roast beef out of George’s hand right as he tried to serve himself more, smirking when the redhead gaped at him. “Oi! Foul play, Potter,” George declared. Harry’s smirk widened.

“What are you gonna do, tell the Ministry?” he teased, showing off his empty hands and making another gesture to yank Fred’s glass out of his grasp, making the prankster splutter on his mouthful of water. “I think you should trade with your brother, Gin,” Harry suggested casually, floating Fred’s drink to Ginny and Ginny’s drink back towards the older Weasley.

“Cheers, Harry!” Ginny grabbed the water, saluting him with it and drinking the untainted beverage. Fred, on the other hand, eyed the drink he’d been given with suspicion.

“Sending our own pranks back at us? Harry, I thought we were friends!” he declared dramatically, reeling back as if wounded.

“Looks like Harry here is reminding us he’s allowed to play with the big boys, now,” George drawled, rocking back in his chair. Harry clenched his jaw, hoping nothing showed on his face to betray the way that tone made his pulse jump.

“Harry isn’t _allowed_ to do anything,” Mrs Weasley scolded automatically, only to break with a quiet sob. “I— I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s alright, Mrs Weasley,” Harry replied, his grin only halfway false. “You’re not wrong. But what Fudge doesn’t know won’t hurt him, yeah?”

While the twins were distracted watching their mother like she was going to explode at any moment, Harry surreptitiously moved the roast potato George had hexed on Ron’s plate across the table to George’s, nestling it in with the rest of his food. The only person who seemed to notice was Sirius — several seats down from the twins, he looked like he was about to hurt himself in his attempt not to laugh. His grey eyes sparkled in a way Harry hadn’t seen all day.

“I still can’t believe you can do magic like that — it’s really amazing, Harry!” Hermione said. “And all wordless, too! How many spells can you do like that?”

“I don’t really think of it like spells, to be honest,” he admitted, trying to figure out how to explain in a way that wouldn’t have Hermione wanting to experiment on him. “I started trying it out in first year, before I really knew how magic was supposed to work. I just remembered that before Hogwarts, before I knew any spells or even that magic was real, I did it just by really wanting or needing something to happen. Instinct, y’know?”

“Accidental magic, yeah,” Ron confirmed. “All kids do it.”

“Right. So I just tried to do that and it worked. If I want to do something specific or complicated — like, say, a patronus or a jelly-legs jinx or something — I’d have to say the words and think about the spell. But for stuff like this—“ He raised a hand to send the bowl of peas floating over towards Mr Weasley, “— I just kinda think about it and it happens.” He shot Hermione a sheepish look, feeling a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “I might also have thought a lot about those Star Wars films my cousin likes,” he admitted. Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“ _Really_ , Harry?”

Luckily, Harry was saved having to defend his eleven year-old choices by George yelping in alarm, his hands suddenly transforming into huge fluffy paws. Sirius lost his battle against laughter, almost falling off his seat at the outrage on the redhead’s face at being caught with one of his own pranks. George glared at Ron, then looked around the table, eyes narrowing when he saw Harry’s far-too-innocent smile. “Oh, this means war,” he declared, the menace slightly diminished by the fuzzy appendage he was pointing with — and by the shiver of something that was definitely not fear shooting down Harry’s spine.

“We’ll make a Marauder of you yet, pup!” Sirius told Harry, beaming. Remus, who had gotten up to take his empty plate to the sink, appeared at Harry’s shoulder, smiling — the sadness in his eyes was still there, but there was amusement, too. He ruffled Harry’s hair gently.

“Prongs would be proud,” he agreed, a softness to his tone that made a lump rise in Harry’s throat.

“Yeah?” he asked, hating the way his voice cracked. Remus’ hand clasped the back of Harry’s neck.

“Him and Lily both,” the werewolf murmured. Then his expression changed, into something that reminded Harry how young the man actually was. “She was constantly turning his own pranks back on him.” He leaned in, speaking low enough for only Harry to hear. “We figured it was her way of flirting.”

There was something knowing behind the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, something that had Harry’s cheeks burning red as the man straightened up.

“Hang on a minute—“

“—Did you say _Prongs_?” the twins asked, George ignoring his paws in favour of staring at their ex-professor like he was seeing him for the first time. Remus, hand still on Harry’s neck, glanced down at the black-haired teen.

“I thought you said they knew?”

“They know about the Marauders, and the map,” Harry said, smirking at the twins. “They don’t know the specifics.”

Sirius stood, clapping his hands together. “Oh, pup, if I’d known that I’d have had _way_ more fun with them!” He strolled around the table, bumping Remus’ shoulder with his own. “You finished eating?” he asked Harry. “I wanted to borrow you for a minute.”

“I— yeah?” Harry, confused by the abrupt change in topic, glanced down at his mostly empty plate. “May I be excused?” The question was directed at Mrs Weasley, who looked like she could do with a lie down after all the chaos of the day.

“Of course, dear.”

Harry got to his feet, following his godfather towards the door. In the doorway, Sirius stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Are you coming, Moony?” His tone was just shy of innocent, and Harry’s gaze darted towards the Weasley twins. Fred had dropped his fork, and George was so stunned he didn’t even notice when his dad’s hair turned bright blue as a result of him eating the peas.

Remus grinned, amber eyes bright. “I suppose,” he mock-sighed, moving to join the pair. He caught Harry’s eye, and his smile widened. “It always took two to keep Padfoot out of trouble, after all.”

With that, the three of them left the kitchen — and paused just outside the door.

“Did he just—“

“—Are they really—“

“ _Padfoot and Moony??_ ” they heard the twins splutter in unison, incredulous. Sirius snickered, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close, heading towards the stairs.

“Oh, we’re gonna get so much mileage out of that one,” he declared happily. “Now come on; I really did have something to show you.”

“Did you actually want me along, or were you just being dramatic?” Remus asked, amused.

“Me? Dramatic? How dare you!” Sirius declared in an affronted whisper, leading the way up the stairs. “Yes, of course I was being dramatic — who do you think I am?” Remus rolled his eyes. “You should come, though. If it’s alright with Harry.”

“I don’t even know where we’re going,” Harry pointed out. “But yeah, it’s fine. If you want. You probably have other things to do.” He dropped his gaze, his insecurity rising as the laughter faded. Remus never seemed as keen to connect with Harry as Sirius was — he’d had the whole of Harry’s third year and hardly said anything about Harry’s parents, and even though he was around Grimmauld Place fairly often he still tended to keep to himself.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Remus told him earnestly. “I think… This is all a bit overdue — if the world had any fairness, you’d have been coming to stay with Sirius and I from day one, and certainly come to us after James and Lily died. We might be quite a few years too late, but you’re going to be living here, and I’d very much like to get to know you better. I think you’ve proven today that you don’t care what Albus Dumbledore has to say about it all.”

Harry froze. In front of him, Sirius’ shoulders stiffened. “What did Dumbledore say?” he asked warily. Remus frowned.

“He told me — both of us, I believe — it was best if we kept our distance. That you didn’t need that reminder of the family you’d lost.”

Rage, white hot and almost blinding, flared through Harry. On the landing below, an ornate vase shattered. He’d been doing that a lot, today. Oops.

“Dumbledore thinks he knows best about a lot of things,” Harry growled. “He’s wrong more often than he’ll admit. I want both of you in my life. As— as my godfathers, like you should have been from the start.”

“Good,” Sirius declared, reaching back to grab Harry by the hand and tug him further up the stairs. “Because you’re stuck with us. Especially now. How’d you feel about Remus moving in, once the summer’s over? The three of us living here, together?”

A beaming smile tugged at Harry’s lips. Expulsion aside, that sounded amazing. “I’d love it.”

There was a spring in Sirius’ step as he led them down a hall. When Harry glanced over his shoulder, Remus was smiling. “That’s settled, then,” the werewolf agreed. “We can help you with your training, too. Anything you need from us.”

Harry, who had thought it was optimistic to hope for Tonks and Moody and Kingsley to help, let alone anyone else, looked at him in surprise. “Really? You don’t— you aren’t going to make me study the fifth year curriculum?”

“Harry, if you’ve established anything today, it’s that no one in this house can _make_ you do anything,” came Remus’ wry response. At Harry’s embarrassed blush, he winked. “That bit comes from Lily, too. Stubborn as anything, she was.”

“Oh, Merlin, was she ever,” Sirius agreed. “Terrifying when she got on a tear. Watching you chew out Dumbledore earlier, blimey, you’re definitely her kid. She’d have been cheering you on, for sure.” He barked out a laugh. “Now, come here. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

He pushed open a door to their left, entirely unaware that he’d just blindsided his godson like a bludger to the stomach.

It was the first time in Harry’s memory that anyone had attributed anything but Lily Evans’ eyes to him. The first time he’d been told his mother would have been supportive of something he’d done.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel nearly as bad about yelling at the headmaster before.

Still off-kilter, Harry stepped into the room behind Sirius, looking around in confusion.

They were in a bedroom, but it was unlike any of the other bedrooms in the house. This one had a Gryffindor banner blazing across one wall, and several posters of motorcycles and scantily clad women, and scantily clad women posing with motorcycles. They were all muggle, though there were some moving pictures tacked up beside them; Harry saw one of the Marauders as teens, and his breath caught in his throat.

Behind him, Remus chuckled. “I should’ve guessed,” he mused. “I remember when you told me about those posters.”

Sirius’ cheeks went pink. “Yes, well, I’ll take those down. Soon as I remember which sticking charm I used — didn’t want Mum tearing them off while I was gone, see.”

“This was your room?” Harry realised, and his godfather nodded.

“Yup. My bedroom ’til I was sixteen — ran away and moved in with the Potters, summer after fifth year. Doubt anyone’s been in here since. Not even Kreacher, by the looks of it.” He swiped his finger through the thick layer of dust on the desk, grimacing. “I figured you’d want to spend the last of the summer with Ron, all things considered. But I thought maybe — once the house empties out a bit, I was wondering if you wanted to move up here? Claim this room as your own.”

Harry froze, wide-eyed. “Really? I— I assumed I’d stay where I was.”

“You can if you want to,” Sirius hastened to assure. “You can live where you like, honestly. Plenty of rooms in this bloody house. But it’s your house now too, and you deserve better than a guest room. You deserve a room of your own, you can decorate how you like.”

“Preferably with better taste than Padfoot,” Remus piped up, sending a disparaging look at the nearest bikini-clad muggle model. “God, did this actually convince your parents you weren’t bent?”

“Doubt it,” Sirius said with a snort. “But posters of half-naked muggle blokes were harder to come by in the 70s. Anyway, that’s beside the point.” He glanced back to Harry, who was still looking around, stunned. “Kingsley’s arranged for Buckbeak to move to join a Hippogriff herd in North Wales next week, so I’ll be claiming the master suite as my own — and burning everything my dear old Mum ever touched,” he added with a vindictive grin. “I thought while I’m redecorating like that, we could make this place yours, too. What do you think?”

The words filtered through Harry’s dazed mind. A room of his own, that he could decorate however he wanted. He’d never had one of those before. Even at Privet Drive, it had always been clear the room was still Dudley’s second bedroom, Harry was just being _allowed_ to take residence there in the summers. “That would be brilliant,” he breathed, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Course not!” Sirius enthused, now grinning. “I’ve got too many bad memories in this place — about time it was filled with something brighter. You can snoop if you like, too; Merlin only knows what I’ve left in this place. Might be some more pictures of your dad, somewhere. Possibly even a picture or two of Lily. Though, uh, she probably won’t be facing the camera,” he added, snorting. “Jamie-boy was a creepy little stalker, back in the day.” He slung an arm across Harry’s shoulders once more, dropping a kiss to his temple. “What’s mine is yours, pup.”

“Thanks, Sirius.” Harry leaned into him, happy bubbles fluttering in his belly. Maybe he wasn’t entirely without a home after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry wasn’t actually feeling too bad the next morning, all things considered. At least, until he came down for breakfast and saw Fred and George with the Prophet between them, the headline bold on the front page. **_Boy-Who-Lived: Expelled From Hogwarts_**. Fantastic.

“I probably don’t want to read that, do I?” he declared, dropping into the seat opposite George. The redhead looked up, and grimaced apologetically.

“Not really,” he confirmed, though he handed over the paper anyway. Harry was unsurprised to see Rita Skeeter’s name in the byline, and he skimmed the article, any semblance of a good mood curdling immediately. “What a load of bollocks,” he muttered, ignoring Mr Weasley’s half-hearted scold for his language. “ _‘In a Ministry hearing yesterday morning, Potter was found guilty of using dangerous and powerful magic in front of muggles’_ , in what universe is a Patronus charm dangerous? She makes it sound like I was throwing Unforgivables around the playground!”

“Reckon you should’ve kept her in that jar, ‘Mione,” Ron said around a mouthful of toast. Beside him, Hermione scowled.

“The nerve of that woman, after everything,” she agreed.

“Kept her in a jar?” Tonks cut in, eyebrows raised. Harry hadn’t realised she was in the room — her hair was a fiery Weasley-red this morning, she’d blended in to the group. Hermione looked up, blushing.

“Last year after all the awful things she was writing about Harry, we might have discovered she was an unregistered beetle animagus,” she admitted.

“What Hermione means to say is _she_ discovered Skeeter was an animagus, trapped her in a jar, and blackmailed her into only writing nice truthful things about me. Clearly, Rita’s forgotten that little conversation,” Harry said, shooting Hermione a grin when her blush deepened. The dark-skinned witch got several impressed glances from the kitchen’s occupants.

“Blimey, Hermione!” Tonks said. “Don’t suppose you’ve thought of a career in law enforcement? We could use an investigator with your mind in the department.” Then her face turned mischievous, making it inordinately clear who she was truly related to in the room, regardless of hair colour. “I think that’s information Kingsley might be _very_ interested to hear, y’know,” she mused in a casual tone, topping up her mug of tea. “Best to make sure our nation’s news is coming from good, _upstanding_ citizens, after all.”

Hermione bit her lip, then allowed a vindictive smile to escape. “I’ve got pictures of her beetle form in my room,” she admitted. “I’ll give you them before you head into work.”

Harry smirked, passing the paper back to George. Rita Skeeter would regret writing that article very, very soon.

“Well, I’ll just pretend I heard none of that,” Mrs Weasley cut in, bustling over with a plate of eggs and toast for Harry. “Merlin, the things you children get up to in that castle.” Her eyes flicked sadly back to Harry for a moment, before she pursed her lips and turned away. Harry’s heart clenched. He’d be getting up to nothing in that castle, anymore.

George kicked him gently under the table. “Oi, don’t think we’ve forgotten about that little bombshell you dropped at dinner last night, _Mister Marauder_ ,” he muttered, glancing over at Sirius and Remus. “We expect details.”

Harry’s grin returned, and he kicked back playfully. “I suppose,” he mock-sighed. “But later.” Guilt about his expulsion or not, Mrs Weasley would kill him if she heard him encouraging the twins — or heard what kind of influences Harry would have around him when everyone went back to school. She’d written Sirius off long ago, but she was still under the impression that Remus Lupin was a sensible man who would keep Harry in line. Harry didn’t want to burst that bubble.

When they were done eating, Harry let the twins herd him up to their room. There was a cauldron simmering in the corner, and a tall pile of order forms stacked on the desk. “Business is booming, I see,” he commented, flicking through the impressive amount of orders.

“All thanks to you,” Fred chirped, grinning. He spun the rickety desk chair around, sitting astride it backwards. “So, spill, Potter — have you been holding out on us?”

Harry laughed, sitting on George’s bed, George dropping down beside him with an eager expression. “Honestly after all this time you’ve lived here I assumed you’d found out already,” he confessed. “They’re not exactly careful about the nicknames.”

“Are they really Padfoot and Moony?” George asked, wide-eyed. Harry nodded.

“Yup. The last of the Marauders, in the flesh. My dad was Prongs.”

The twins shared a look, then turned back to Harry. “We are not worthy,” they breathed, making him laugh.

“Is Wormtail dead too, then?” Fred asked, looking forlorn. Harry’s expression tightened.

“No, but he might as well be.” He explained the truth of Peter Pettigrew, watching the twins’ faces turn furious and disgusted.

“Good riddance,” George muttered. “Blimey, can’t believe we’ve been living under the same roof as two of the Marauders all summer!” He turned to his twin, gaping. “Freddie, we’ve _pranked_ the Marauders!”

“They think you’re brilliant,” Harry informed the pair, grinning as they blushed identically. “You should show them some of the stuff you’ve been working on. I bet they’d have ideas.”

“I never would’ve guessed it from Professor Lupin,” Fred mused with a shake of his head.

“No one ever did, that’s what made him such a good alibi.” In the short time Harry had been at Grimmauld Place, he’d heard plenty of stories of ‘the good old days’ as Sirius called them. More often than not, Remus was the brains behind the operation; and the trustworthy, innocent face presented to the professors.

“Wicked,” George murmured. His knee bumped against Harry’s. “D’you really think they’dlike to see our products? They’re the _Marauders_ , they practically wrote the book on pranking!”

“They never thought of half the stuff you two have,” Harry returned. “Sirius especially would love to take a look. Just between us, I thinks he misses his pranking days at school. He’d love an eager audience for some of his stories, too.” It was hard for the dog animagus, sometimes — his time in Azkaban had made the good memories fuzzy. But with Remus there to help him work through things, he was starting to recover his jovial old self; and process the twelve years he’d lost to that awful place. Harry thought it was good for him to remind himself of the good times, and gain some perspective for how long ago that was now. He certainly seemed to accidentally call Harry by his father’s name much less, now.

“Wow.” The twins sat in an amazed silence, having a conversation entirely in glances and facial expressions. George’s knee was still pressed against Harry’s, the contact warm through the denim of Harry’s jeans.

“So what’s in the cauldron?” Harry asked, nodding his head towards the bubbling brew. George lit up, launching into an explanation of the potion they were working on. Harry listened with a smile; if the twins managed to sit down with Padfoot and Moony before they went back to school, Hogwarts surely wouldn’t know what hit it.

.-.-.

After that first day, there were no more articles in the Prophet about Harry’s expulsion, and the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place turned… interesting. It wasn’t tense, exactly — more just forced, like the people within were trying far too hard to pretend everything was normal. Harry and the others were still put to work cleaning the house, and no one mentioned Hogwarts, or the rapidly approaching school term, or anything to do with education whatsoever. It was like certain members of the household were denying there had been any change in things at all — if they didn’t talk about school, they wouldn’t have to acknowledge that Harry wouldn’t be on the train come September 1st.

They probably thought they were doing it for his benefit, but Harry just found it exhausting. Hermione was going to give herself an aneurism with the number of times she cut herself off mid-word, about to go into a tirade about OWLs and study schedules, her face turning devastated as she caught Harry’s eye. As if he was going to break down crying at the reminder that he wouldn’t be taking his exams.

In her defence, that would likely be her reaction in his place.

She and Ron were spending more time with Harry than ever. He wondered if they felt guilty for the first half of the summer, where they kept him in the dark with pacifying letters full of nothing, knowing he was cooped up at the Dursleys’. Then he felt bad for thinking that about his friends. This was a tough situation for them, too.

He hadn’t mentioned Sirius’ offer of his old bedroom to Ron and Hermione, trying to keep the peace by joining them in their moratorium on anything not-summer-related. He was trying to be normal with them, but it was hard when they _weren’t_. It was a little suffocating, in all honesty — Harry had taken to finding refuge in the Black family library. Even Hermione didn’t venture in there much, due to the dark nature of the majority of the books, and the warnings of curses on the tomes. Now that Harry didn’t have to limit his magic use, he wasn’t too bothered by the occasional screaming or biting book. Remus had promised him that anything _truly_ dangerous was on the back shelves, and Harry in turn had promised not to go near the back shelves without supervision.

Instead he claimed the least moth-eaten sofa in the room, curling up with a stack of books that weren’t light by any means, but weren’t likely to harm him. He might not have said anything to the others — indeed, Tonks had told him to just say the word when he wanted to begin his ‘auror training’, seemingly aware he was going to wait until the house was quieter — but he was still thinking about Dumbledore’s words during their private talk after his hearing.

Voldemort had done something to ensure he could not be killed by regular means. Harry couldn’t think of a better place to investigate potential dark rituals like that than the Black library. It was helping, too, for him to make a list of magic he wanted to work on once his friends were back at school.

They might not be thinking about that future, but Harry couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. Barely two weeks left until school went back, the clock was ticking for him.

He looked up when the door opened, raising an eyebrow when George slipped into the room. He wasn’t often without his twin. The redhead smiled, gesturing to the sofa, and Harry nodded in welcome. “You need an alibi?” he asked, only half teasing. George made himself comfortable on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking his knees up so he was facing Harry.

“Nah, just thought I’d find you in here.” He looked at the book in Harry’s hand, making a face. “Good book?”

“Surprisingly interesting, actually,” Harry returned, though he set the book down. He could count the number of times he had been truly alone with George Weasley on one hand, and yet he was far too familiar with the hum in his veins that accompanied the phenomenon. It was like a magnet, drawing his attention to the redhead, making him more aware of _everything_. “What did you need me for?” Something squirmed anxiously in his stomach, wondering what George was about to say. What Harry might want him to say.

“I… Fred and I were talking, the other night,” George started, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper. “We’ve always been pretty… lax about our studies. Surprising, I know,” he added, winking at Harry’s exaggerated look of shock. “Since our ever-so-generous silent partner made an investment, we’ve been so busy working on getting things for the future shop ready. We don’t have premises, yet, but we’re looking, and things have been doing really well through the order forms.” George ran a hand through his hair, Harry’s eyes following the movement, absently wondering what those fiery strands might feel like between his own fingers. “So, y’know, we don’t really need our NEWTs. And— I know you’ll have Sirius here, and he’s Padfoot and your godfather and that’s _amazing_ and we’re so glad you finally have the chance to spend time with him. But.” George bit his lip, hesitant. “If you wanted a bit more company, or anything. Fred and I don’t have to go back. We’re seventeen — fully of-age wizards, regardless of whether we’ve got our NEWTs or not. We could, y’know, stay here with you. Until we get somewhere for the shop to run from.”

For a moment, Harry watched him, imagining what it would be like if he said yes. Having Sirius and Remus and the twins around. Having George around.

Merlin, it was tempting.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he said instead. George grinned.

“S’why we’re offering, duh,” he pointed out. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Not what I meant. George… you’re brilliant.” The older boy’s ears glowed pink. “You and Fred both. Regardless of grades, you two are _so_ intelligent and creative and incredible. The things you’ve invented, they’re brilliant, and I know that your shop is going to be amazing regardless of how many NEWTs you get.”

“Easy with the compliments there, Potter. People will talk,” George teased, trying to push through the embarrassment Harry could see on his face. Harry stuck his tongue out, smiling.

“No one’s here but us,” he reminded. His heart skipped a beat at the way that sounded. He forged on before he could distract himself. “What I mean is, you’re already well on your way to success. Give it a year or two, I have no doubt business will be booming. But not everyone sees your genius like I do. We both know how important it is to your mum that you finish school.”

George’s smile faltered. “Fred and I could graduate with straight Os and Mum still wouldn’t approve of our business plans.”

“Only because she doesn’t understand them. She worries about you — the same way I bet she worried about Charlie when he said he wanted to go play with dragons in Romania,” Harry reasoned. He let his legs stretch out and tangle ever so slightly with George’s on the cushion between them. “She wants you to do well, and be happy, and have enough money to support yourselves with. It’s just that in her mind, the way to do that is to get good grades and a more _traditional_ job. It’s bad enough she has to see me expelled without so much as an OWL to my name. It’d break her heart to see you two drop out just to hang out with little old me.”

“You’re not that little. You’ve grown about three inches since last summer,” George teased, nudging the cuff of Harry’s jeans with his toe, pointing out how they were a little too short in the leg for him. “I… are you sure?”

“Yeah. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t take it.” No matter how wonderful it sounded, right then.

There was understanding on George’s freckled face, though he looked a little sad, too. “Always been too noble for your own good, y’know,” he said. “You should learn to be a bit selfish once in a while.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed. “But not about this. It’s one more year, I think I’ll cope.” And if he gave away more than intended with that statement, George didn’t say anything, though his shin rested a little heavier on Harry’s. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Ron and Hermione for me.”

“That’s what Ginny’s for, isn’t it?” George retorted, grinning. Harry snorted.

“You’ll look out for them, won’t you?” he asked, softening. “It’s— it’s gonna be hard for them, without me.”

“Not just them,” George confessed, so quiet Harry wasn’t sure he was supposed to have heard. “We’ll try and keep them out of trouble.” He grinned slyly. “You never know, with you out of the way they might finally realise they’re mad about each other.”

That drew a surprised laugh from Harry’s lips. “That’ll be the day,” he sighed.

“We live in hope.” George shifted, their legs tangling further. “We’ll write all the time, of course. Give you the blow-by-blow of all our best work,” he promised with a wink. “Keep you up to date on all the good gossip of Hogwarts. Can’t have you forgetting about us while you’re here training to be the saviour of the wizarding world and all that.”

Harry smiled, shaking his head. “It probably won’t be as glamorous as you’re thinking,” he insisted. “Your lives will be way more interesting.”

“If you say so,” George said breezily. “We’ll compare at Christmas. You can dazzle me some more with your wandless magic.” His brown eyes sparked with something that made Harry’s stomach clench. “Fred and I aren’t the only ones who are destined for success regardless of grades, y’know? If anyone can go ahead and knock the socks off the wizarding world even after being expelled, it’s you. And I’m not just talking about offing old Mouldy-Shorts.”

He couldn’t stop the startled laugh that escaped him, even as he felt his cheeks heat. “One thing at a time,” he deflected. His stomach clenched in an entirely different and much more unpleasant way when he thought about facing Voldemort — about having a life after that. He didn’t want to get his hopes up.

“ _Kids, lunch is ready!”_ Mrs Weasley’s magically enhanced voice echoed through the house, followed by the indecipherable yelling of Mrs Black. Harry and George both jumped. For a while there, Harry had forgotten where they were.

“Well, then.” George untangled his legs from Harry’s and got to his feet. “We’d best get down there before Ron clears the table. Coming?” He held out a hand. Harry took it, the redhead’s freckled fingers warm against his own, tightening as they pulled the shorter boy upright. His skin was so pale, compared to Harry’s Indian complexion, and Harry could’ve stared at the contrast between them for hours.

There was a long moment, their gazes locked and their hands still clasped, stood barely a foot apart. George smiled softly. “I’m gonna miss you this year, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaked, pulse hammering in his ears. “Me, too.”

Their hands remained clasped until they stepped out into the hallway, shutting the library door in their wake.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had completely forgotten about book lists and such until the owls arrived on the morning of August 31st. Harry wasn’t at breakfast when they did — everyone was walking on eggshells around him, so he’d made himself scarce, heading up to the room he shared with Ron after forcing down a couple of slices of toast with half a cup of tea. Not that things were much better, there; Ron’s mostly-packed trunk stood at the foot of his bed, a stark contrast to the messy pile of clothes Harry had been living out of in an effort to avoid facing all his school things. He sighed to himself; the closer it got to September first, the more it started to sink in that he wasn’t going back to Hogwarts. The more it started to hurt.

“Book lists are here,” Ron declared upon entering, an envelope in his hand. Just the one. “About time, too. They’re usually way earlier than this. Diagon’s gonna be _heaving_ , I can’t believe they left it so late.”

“George said it’s because it’s taken ages for Dumbledore to find a new Defence teacher,” Harry said, valiantly keeping his voice casual. “I wonder who you’ve got. At least it probably won’t be someone trying to kill me, this time — they might actually be decent.” But Ron didn’t seem to be listening. He was looking inside the open envelope, a gobsmacked expression on his face. “Ron? You alright?”

Wordlessly, the redhead tipped the envelope over — and a shiny red and gold badge dropped into his palm. “Prefect,” Ron said, barely louder than a whisper. “I— Dumbledore’s made me a prefect.”

Harry had completely forgotten that prefects were chosen in fifth year. His heart squeezed uncomfortably, a hollow space in his chest. “Wow. Congratulations, Ron, that’s brilliant!”

Ron looked up, and his blue eyes dimmed. “Bet it’s just because you won’t be there. Who else was he gonna pick; Neville?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry argued, shoving down the tiny voice in the back of his mind that agreed. “He never would’ve picked me, I’ve been way too much trouble.”

“Trouble? Where?” The twins apparated into the room, their own book lists in hand. They looked between the two, then their eyes dropped to the badge in Ron’s hand. “Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” George blurted.

“Oi!” Ron responded automatically.

“You’re a prefect? Ugh, Mum’s going to be _revolting_ ,” Fred said with a grimace. “Here we thought you had your priorities right.”

“Perfect Prefect Ronnikins,” George cooed, while Fred mimed retching. Harry’s chest loosened off, a grin tugging at his lips. George caught his eye, winking.

The door slammed open, Hermione rushing in with her hair flying about her face, her own envelope in hand. Harry was entirely unsurprised by the badge she was holding, identical to Ron’s. That had been coming since their first year. “I got— oh my God,” she said, jaw dropping at the sight of the badge in Ron’s hand. “Are you—?”

“Prefect,” Ron confirmed faintly. “Yeah.”

“Oh. Wow.” Hermione’s glance flicked guiltily over to Harry, her thoughts clear. “That’s— that’s amazing, Ron, congratulations!”

Ron still seemed to be in shock. George bumped Harry’s shoulder, leaning in. “Disgraceful, the pair of them,” he muttered, shaking his head in disappointment. “At least you’ve got the right idea.”

“I got expelled,” Harry said dryly. George’s grin widened.

“Exactly. Man after my own heart, that.”

Harry was saved having to find a response when Mrs Weasley came by the open door, carrying a pile of freshly laundered door. “I heard the booklists are here. Give them to me, I’m headed to the Alley. Hermione, dear, do you need anything other than your books? I’ll have to get Ron some new pyjamas, his are at least six inches too short. Growing like a weed, honestly. What colour would you like, love?”

“Get him red and gold, to match his new badge,” Fred crowed, roughly mussing his little brother’s hair. What followed was an absolute explosion of joy from Mrs Weasley — she was happier than Harry had seen her since before he got expelled.

“Oh, that’s everyone in the family!” she exclaimed, kissing Ron’s face a dozen times while it turned redder and redder.

“What are we, next-door neighbours?” George muttered in Harry’s ear, his lips brushing his temple. Harry snorted, even as heat rushed through him.

Mrs Weasley took the booklists from Ron and Hermione, congratulating her on her new badge as well, and then faltered when she stopped in front of Harry. Her hand was out automatically — she wrenched it back in like she’d been bitten, tucking it into her pocket awkwardly. “I— do you need anything from the Alley, Harry, dear?” she asked in a somewhat strangled tone.

“No thanks,” he replied, remaining steady only by the grace of George’s chest pressing against his shoulder. “It’ll be hectic enough, I’d imagine. Don’t worry about me.” He offered a smile he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. The twins came to his rescue, bowing and scraping theatrically after their brother, drawing the attention of half the household with their loud exclamations of his prefect status, following him out of the room as he hesitantly asked his mother for a new broom. Harry was left alone with Hermione, who was biting her lip.

“Harry,” she started hesitantly. “Do you— would it be okay for me to borrow Hedwig, to tell Mum and Dad? They’ll be so pleased; prefect is something they can understand, you know?”

“Yeah, of course!” he agreed, hating how false his cheer sounded. “She’d love the journey. I think she’s up hanging out with Remus’ owl.”

“Thanks.” There was an awkward silence. Then, “Are— are you alright, Harry?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. God, he was tired of saying that. “Look, congratulations, Hermione. You deserve it, really.”

Her cheeks flushed, her smile widening. “Thanks, Harry. I.. Oh, I’m going to miss you!” She flung her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. “It’s going to be awful without you.”

“No it won’t,” he soothed, patting her back somewhat awkwardly. “It’ll be nice and quiet and normal for once.” She giggled wetly into his shoulder. “You won’t even notice I’m gone after the first week.”

She made a noise of disagreement, pulling back. There were tears in her eyes again. “You’ll write, won’t you? I— I don’t want you to get lonely here.”

“I’ll write,” he confirmed. “And I won’t get lonely. I’ll have Sirius and Remus. And I’ll be busy.”

Her lips pursed at the reminder of his plans for the year. “I’ll duplicate all my notes for you,” she promised for what had to be the dozenth time. “Hopefully you’ll be back before exams start.”

Through everything, she had been resolute in her conviction that Dumbledore would find a way to get Harry’s expulsion overturned. At this point, Harry was too tired to argue with her. “You’d better go finish packing,” he said instead. “Get that letter to your parents.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Hermione squeezed him in another tight hug, then scurried from the room, leaving Harry alone.

At last, he looked at his closed trunk. He really should have gone through it before now — he could’ve offered his school books to Ginny, or something. Given Ron his cauldron and potions’ ingredients. His cauldron had certainly seen better days.

But despite knowing he wasn’t going back to school again, he couldn’t bring himself to part with them. He told himself he might need them in the coming year — the solution to defeating Voldemort might be a potion.

Of course, if that was the case he’d probably ask Remus or someone to brew it, but still. Those were his things. His wizardly studying tools. He wasn’t ready to give them up, yet.

He should probably stop living out of a clothes pile, though.

Reminded that he would soon be moving upstairs to Sirius’ old room, he squared his shoulders and flipped his trunk open, starting to pack up his things ready to move. This was the easy part — the hard part would be unpacking them all later.

There was a knock on the door, and he looked up, surprise flickering across his face as Ginny slipped into the room. “Hi, Harry. D’you… Can I talk to you for a second?”

“As long as you promise not to cry,” he warned half-seriously, making her laugh.

“Hermione was just here, hmm?” came her knowing response. “I promise.”

Harry perched on the edge of the desk, beckoning her properly into the room. “What’s up?”

She wrung her hands, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Well, I’ve been thinking, this last week, and— of course, it’s not gonna be the same without you, and I won’t be _nearly_ as good as you are and there’s no guarantee I’d make it anyway, but I wanted to try, only I don’t want you to get upset or anything, and— what I’m trying to say is, I was thinking about maybe trying out for seeker this year?” Her words flooded out in a rush, and she went wide-eyed when Harry tensed. “I don’t want you to think I want to replace you! I’d never be able to replace you, you’re the best seeker Gryffindor’s seen in ages. But the team will still need someone. And Bill said he’d send me his old broom if I wanted to try out. I just thought — well — I was going to try out for chaser when Angelina and Alicia graduated, but I… I like playing seeker, too. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to, though,” she added hastily. “You’re my friend, Harry. I don’t want you to be upset.”

“Take my Firebolt.” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he’d even finished thinking them, but he didn’t take them back. Ginny gaped at him.

“Sorry, what?”

“Take my Firebolt,” he repeated. “I’m not gonna be using it. Feels like a crime to let a broom like that just sit in my trunk and go to waste. I’d give it to Ron, but I don’t think seeker’s his thing. You’ll need speed more than he will.” He’d seen the way Ron had eyed up the keeper plays in Quidditch Weekly lately. He knew there was a reason his friend had asked for a new broom.

“Are you serious? Harry, I can’t— what if I damage it or something, it’s a _Firebolt_ , that’s one of the most expensive brooms in the world! And Sirius gave it to you! I couldn’t do that.”

“Yeah, you can,” Harry insisted, hopping off the desk and striding across to his trunk. The broom was in his hand within moments, and he held it out to Ginny. “You’ll be great as seeker. Gryffindor deserves a good one. Take it.” He grinned. “Kick Malfoy’s arse for me, yeah? I can’t think of anything better than him getting beat by someone younger than him, and a Weasley at that.”

Ginny stared at the broom in his hand, the one that was likely worth more than everything she owned put together. “You mean it,” she said, incredulous. Harry nodded.

“One hundred percent. I know you’ll take care of it.” It would be torture, having the broom and not being able to fly it. He’d rather remove temptation entirely. Besides, he wanted to see Gryffindor win the cup even if he couldn’t be there to see it in person — and it would be nigh on impossible for Ginny to lose on a broom like that.

Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out to wrap a hand around the polished handle of the racing broom. Harry relinquished it into her grasp, watching the joy flicker across her face at just the feel of the broom in her hands. He grinned to himself; yeah, she’d look after it for him. “It’s just a loan,” she told him firmly. “I’m not keeping it.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “You can get your own broom when you make prefect next year.”

She made a face at that. “You wouldn’t catch me dead with one of those badges,” she muttered, sticking her tongue out and gagging. Harry snorted. Fred and George would be pleased to see at least one of their siblings had their priorities straight. “But if I do get a new broom, or if you ever want it back, it’s yours.”

“You can borrow it ’til you graduate,” he promised her. He would want it back eventually — it was the first gift Sirius had given him, after all — but he’d feel better knowing it was going to good use. “Or ’til you get kicked off the team,” he added with a teasing grin. She glared at him.

“Rude,” she muttered. “You’ve been hanging out with Fred and George too much. You used to have manners, y’know.”

They both snickered. Ginny straightened up, setting the broom carefully on the bed, then grabbing Harry in a tight hug. “You’re the best, Harry.”

She was shorter than Hermione, her head tucking under his chin as he hugged her. Her strawberry-scented shampoo tickled his nose. “You’ll be a great seeker,” he assured her. “With or without the Firebolt. But it certainly won’t hurt.”

She pulled back, a look of determination on her face. She picked up the broom again, then looked back to Harry. “I’m gonna make Draco Malfoy cry,” she told him fiercely. Harry smirked.

“I expect pictures when you do.”

She grinned a Weasley-wicked grin, darting forward to kiss him on the cheek, then hurried out of the room with her body huddled protectively around the broom. Harry knew then that she wasn’t going to tell anyone what he’d done — not until she showed up at seeker tryouts and blew them all away.

Hopefully now he wouldn’t get three angry letters from the chaser girls about leaving the team in the lurch.

“Did I just see my sister leave here?” He looked up, seeing George enter with a furrow between his brow.

“Oh, yeah, she just wanted to ask me something,” Harry deflected. He wasn’t going to burst Ginny’s moment.

George had a funny look on his face, the frown not quite leaving. “Right.” He gave Harry a long glance, and Harry tried not to squirm. Why was he looking at him like that? “Mum’s gone to Diagon. Said something about throwing a party tonight, to celebrate the new prefects. The whole Order’s coming.”

Harry’s smile dropped. “Right,” he echoed. “Of course, yeah. It’s great news. Lots to celebrate.”

George’s brown eyes were knowing. He stepped closer, ruffling Harry’s hair in a move that was really more of a fond stroke. Harry tried not to lean into the touch too obviously. “You know it would’ve been you, right? If Fudge hadn’t ballsed it all up? That badge was yours for sure.”

“Not necessarily,” Harry argued, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Besides, I thought being a prefect was _revolting_ ,” he teased. George smiled the smile that made Harry’s heart stutter.

“I dunno. Reckon you could’ve made it look good,” he commented. “Authority can be a bit sexy in the right person.”

Harry’s palms felt clammy. His throat went dry. He coughed. “Why, George, I never knew you felt that way about Professor McGonagall,” he retorted, trying to keep his cool. George blinked, then cracked up laughing.

“Oh, you’ve got me,” he declared, leaning an elbow on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s the fire in her eyes when she starts yelling at me. Gets me every time.” He fanned himself, feigning a swoon.

“Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Harry replied. George gave him another one of those devastatingly attractive winks.

“And what a boat it is,” he drawled. “Want to help me and Fred charm the cups to spit peoples’ drinks back at them for tonight? We’ve got Moony on distraction duty.” He looked practically giddy at the declaration, still not over sharing a house with two of his idols.

“Absolutely.”

That sounded like the perfect distraction.

.-.-.

Mrs Weasley was gone for most of the day, and the house was full of the usual chaos that came with returning to Hogwarts for another year. Mrs Black’s portrait was constantly awoken as the Weasleys and Hermione made sure they had all their clothes and books and things, finding all the belongings that had wormed their way into the odd nooks and crannies of Grimmauld place. The twins were regularly flooing back and forth between Grimmauld and the Burrow to pick up things they’d forgotten, or fetch things for their siblings.

It was all making Harry feel a little bit nauseous, when he let himself think about it too much. Keeping the smile on his face whenever anyone looked his way, clapping Ron on the back to congratulate him on his prefect’s badge and his new Cleansweep, watching his friends go through the same pre-school rituals that he himself should have been going through. Sirius caught him having a melancholy moment shortly after lunch, and he pulled him into a loose hug. “You’re allowed to be sad about it, pup,” he murmured. “No one will blame you. Regardless of what you yelled at Dumbledore the other week — expecting the worst doesn’t make it any less painful when it happens.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum, but leaned into his godfather’s embrace.

“Y’know, when you first came back after your trial, and we found out you’d been expelled… I was pleased,” Sirius confessed. “And I hated myself for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kid, you’ve been the best thing in my life since the day you were born. Thinking about you was the only thing that kept me sane all those years in Azkaban. Having you around this summer, even for a little while — I was dreading having to send you back to school, settling for the odd letter here and there when it felt safe enough to send one. Like I said, I’ve got nothing but bad memories of this house. Having you around has made that bearable. I didn’t want to lose that. But that was selfish of me, and I never _really_ thought it would come true. So when it did… Merlin, I felt guilty as hell.” He shook his head, kissing Harry’s hair. “You deserve to be going back to school, pup. Spending time with your friends, going to class and taking exams and getting up to mischief. Snogging people on the Astronomy tower and sneaking down to the kitchens and playing quidditch. Normal teenage stuff. Not being trapped in this awful old house with your escaped convict godfather and his werewolf best friend, preparing yourself to wandlessly fight the most powerful dark wizard around.”

“I’d have to fight him even if I was at school,” Harry pointed out. “It’s not like my previous years have been normal.”

“But you’ve had the chance for normality, in amongst all the fighting,” Sirius reasoned. “I just… you deserve the best life you can get, Harry. You deserve to still be in school, and still have your wand. It’s awful that the Ministry have taken that away from you as part of their own agenda. I just… I hate that a part of me was glad about it. I should want what’s best for you. Like a proper godfather.”

“You _are_ a proper godfather,” Harry insisted, hugging him around the waist. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss school. I wish I hadn’t been expelled. It sucks that my friends are going back without me. But of all the bits I’m sad about, the bit where I get to spend more time with you isn’t one of them.”

Sirius sighed, his forehead pressed to Harry’s hair. “Wise beyond your years, you are,” he groused. “Just— I’ve got your back, no matter what. Your wandless magic, anything else you’ve got up your sleeve; I’m entirely supportive of whatever hell you want to raise from here on out. That’ll never change, pup. I just want you to remember that even if we’re giving you the burdens of an adult, you’re still supposed to be a kid.” He kissed Harry’s head, ending the embrace. “Don’t grow up too soon, yeah? I’d hate to see you lose yourself to this damned war. You’ve lost enough.”

A lump rose in Harry’s throat, and he tried to swallow it down. “I won’t,” he vowed. “But I need to do whatever I can to keep people safe. This war — it ends with me whether I like it or not. One way or another.” If he died, the war would be over, because Voldemort would have won. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Moony and I are right there with you, whatever you need us for,” Sirius assured him. “We can start your training as soon as you’re ready. Tomorrow, even, if you want.”

“I— I was going to spend tomorrow clearing out my new room,” Harry admitted. He wanted something that wouldn’t remind him of Hogwarts in any way, something _good_ he could focus on. “If it’s still alright with you, me moving in there.”

“Course it is!” Sirius enthused, brightening up. “Sounds like a great idea. I think I’ve remembered the counter-charm to the sticking spell I used. Of course, if you want to keep those posters up, be my guest,” he winked when Harry blushed. “But I’ve got a feeling they’re not your cup of tea any more than they were mine.”

Automatically, Harry’s mind flashed to red hair and mischievous eyes and strong, broad shoulders. His cheeks flushed. Sirius snickered. “You Potters and your redheads,” he teased, ruffling Harry’s hair. “Must run in the family or something.”

“We’re not— he’s not—“ They weren’t anything, him and George. They could be. Harry knew that. He felt it, that buzz between them. But they weren’t. Now wasn’t the time.

“Pfft, you might as well be,” Sirius insisted, rolling his eyes. “I commend your choice, pup.Nice Maraudering lad you’ve found for yourself. Would’ve driven your mum mad, and she’d have loved him for it.”

That made Harry grin. “He’s not my lad,” he tried for one last protest, weak as it was.

“He’s as good as,” Sirius returned. “Oh, that reminds me.” He straightened up, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. “I was going to give one to you, back when I thought you’d be headed back to school. So we could keep in touch. But now, well, I’m sure you’ll find a better use for them.”

He held out a pair of small mirrors, completely identical. Harry frowned quizzically. “They’re two-way mirrors. James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions. Just speak the name of the person holding the other one, and they’ll appear in the mirror so you can talk to them.” He pressed them into Harry’s hands, winking. “Keep one, give the other to one of your friends. It’ll save you running poor Hedwig ragged with a dozen letters a week.”

Harry looked down at the innocuous little mirrors, a faint bubble of hope rising in his chest. He’d thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to see any of his friends until Christmas at the earliest. “These are amazing,” he breathed. “Thanks, Sirius!”

“No problem, kid,” Sirius said, looking pleased. “Just don’t let Molly see them, yeah? They’re not a hundred percent legal.”

Harry smirked, tucking them away in his pocket. “Noted.”

“So we’ll give your friends a good send-off, then get all the sexy women off the walls, yeah?” Sirius declared, clapping his hands together. Then he winked. “Don’t want to make any redheads jealous, now. I hear they’ve got a hell of a temper.”

Harry shoved Sirius’ shoulder, scowling as the blush returned to his face. “Git,” he muttered, turning away. Sirius cackled.

“I love you, pup!” he called sweetly. Harry’s step faltered for a second, warmth flooding his chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He’d never had that said to him before; let alone so easily, all teasing aside.

He couldn’t blame Sirius for part of him being glad about Harry’s expulsion. Part of Harry was glad, too.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry didn’t think he would have survived the party that night without the twins being on fine form, Sirius and Remus returning to their Marauder roots to aid them. From the moment he stepped into the kitchen to see the huge red and gold banner congratulating Ron and Hermione, something sharp and jealous had lodged in his chest, and only the laughter at the various pranks throughout the evening stopped it from overwhelming him. Harry was surprised to see how many members of the Order were present for dinner — and even more surprised to see Bill Weasley for the first time since after the third Triwizard task.

“Hiya, Harry!” Bill greeted cheerfully, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “How you doing?” He grimaced as soon as the question was out, eyes flicking to the banner on the wall. “Never mind, I’m sure I can guess.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, though he doubted either of them believed it.

“Course,” Bill agreed easily. “I’ve got something for you, before I forget.” He pulled a slightly crumpled envelope out of the pocket of his leather jacket. Harry frowned, not recognising the neat cursive on the front. “It’s from Fleur.”

“Fleur Delacour?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising. Bill’s tanned cheeks went a bit pink.

“She’s been working at Gringotts over here since she graduated, to help with her English,” he informed the dark-haired teen. “She’s been assigned to my team.”

“Oh?” Harry remembered very well the appreciative glances the quarter-veela girl had sent Bill Weasley when she’d seen him greet Harry the day him and Mrs Weasley had come to visit as Harry’s family. Bill blushed brighter.

“Yeah. I’ve got to know her pretty well, she’s great. Shut it, you,” he added at the look that crossed Harry’s face. “I’m only telling you because she asked me to pass on a letter. If you tell the others, I’ll hex you.”

“My lips are sealed,” Harry promised. “She’s doing well, then?”

“Fits in brilliantly, the goblins love her,” Bill confirmed. “She just wanted to make sure you were doing alright. Especially after she heard about the expulsion and everything. She’s got a soft spot for you, since you saved her sister and all.”

“I’ll read it later and write her back,” Harry promised, surprised but pleased that the other champion wanted to keep in touch.

“Just pass it on to me when you do, don’t bother owling it. I’m sure you’ll want to save Hedwig for other letters.” Bill’s gaze cast over to Ron and Hermione, who were once again being praised by Mrs Weasley. “I heard you’ll be pretty busy once this lot clear out. Tonks said you gave Dumbledore one hell of a talking to. Wish I could’ve seen it.” He must’ve seen the confusion on Harry’s face, as he grinned. “We went to Hogwarts together; she was in Charlie’s year, those two were thick as thieves from day one,” he explained. “Anyway, I just wanted to offer my help if you ever want it. Curse breaking and warding magic might come in pretty handy for you — though it might take a crash course in Runes and Arithmancy first. But if you need me, I’m happy to help. Fleur, as well.”

“Is she part of the Order, too?” Harry asked curiously.

“Not yet, but she probably will be soon. Even if she wasn’t, she’d want to help you, though.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind, thanks.” Another thought occurred to him, at the reminder of the goblin-run bank. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’d be able to get some money out of my vault or something for me, could you? There’s a few things I’ve been thinking of owl ordering, but since I didn’t go to Diagon for school stuff…” He trailed off. Bill frowned.

“Don’t you have a bank note book?”

“A what?” Harry looked at him blankly.

“A bank note book. Money like your family’s got, it’s pretty standard — like a muggle checkbook, makes it easier to buy things without lugging a bag of gold around. Who’s your account manager? I can get one printed for you, no problem.”

“Account manager?” Harry was confused. “I don’t have an account manager, Bill. I’ve just got my vault.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s just your trust vault.” Harry continued to look confused. Bill muttered something in a language Harry didn’t recognise. “Bloody— now’s not the time to go over all this. I’ll find out who the Potter account manager is, and get you a meeting this week. But trust me, Harry — you’ll have a whole lot more than just your one vault.”

“If you say so, Bill.” Harry was utterly bewildered by the conversation, but couldn’t ask anything else, as Bill was quickly set upon by his mother begging to give him a haircut. Eventually, Harry just shook his head, pocketing Fleur’s letter and walking away, joining the queue for food beside Sirius right as his godfather let out a bark-like laugh.

“No one would have made me a prefect, I spent far too much time in detention with James,” Sirius was saying to Ginny. “Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge.” The teasing quality spoke of many years of harassment over just that, and Remus rolled his eyes.

“I think Dumbledore was hoping I could exercise some control over my friends,” he said wryly, nudging Harry ahead of him to grab a baked potato. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

“Failed? You didn’t even try!” Sirius crowed, laughing. Beside Ginny, Hermione looked mildly disapproving.

“Dad wasn’t a prefect?” Harry clarified, feeling a little better about the whole situation when Sirius nodded.

“Merlin, no. S’why we were all so surprised when Dumbledore made him Head Boy. Thought the old man had finally cracked,” he joked. “Lily was prefect, of course, and Head Girl. Pretty sure half of Jamie’s detentions in fifth year were issued by Prefect Evans.” He reached around Ron to grab some roast chicken. “Oi, Moony, remember that time you gave Prongsy detention? Thought he’d never get over the betrayal.”

Harry whipped around to look at Remus, whose face was entirely unrepentant. “He knew he earned it,” the werewolf insisted.

“What did he do?” Harry was curious — even more so when both Remus and Sirius looked sheepish.

“I’ll tell you later,” Remus promised, glancing around shiftily. Harry narrowed his eyes, but let it go, his gaze caught on two identical heads of red hair. The twins were in one corner talking quietly to Mundungus Fletcher — haggling over something, if he read the situation right. Harry was surprised; he hadn’t seen Mundungus since before his hearing. The man hadn’t been able to face Harry after inadvertently being the reason he was expelled from Hogwarts, and Harry hadn’t been keen on seeing him either. He clenched his jaw, turning away from the trio. He’d catch the twins later.

“Oi, Potter.” He whipped around, meeting Moody’s unnaturally bright blue eye. “Come here a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”

The grizzled ex-auror was sat alone at one end of the table, sniffing suspiciously at a chicken leg. Harry slid into the chair beside him.

With the hand not holding the chicken, Moody reached into his coat, pulling out a very tattered old photograph. “The original Order of the Phoenix, back in the day. Thought you might like to see it.”

Harry took the photo with careful fingers, gaze scanning the group of people assembled in the picture as they smiled and waved at him. Moody was pointing out the unfamiliar faces — complete with descriptions of their gruesome fates, which made Harry’s stomach turn. He tried to tune him out, focusing on the people he did recognise. Remus, looking far younger with a fresh scar across his cheek. Near him, a pair of faces Harry had never met, but recognised instantly through his familiarity with their son; Neville Longbottom was the very image of his mother, her round face making his heart clench. The man with an arm around his waist had to be Neville’s dad; their noses were the same. Frank Longbottom grinned warmly up at Harry, before dropping a kiss on his wife’s cheek, making her giggle. Harry tore his gaze away, stomach churning.

Instead, his eyes found Sirius — short-haired and clean shaven, the same roguish smile on his face that he had in the Potters’ wedding photo. He winked at Harry, blowing him a kiss. Harry swallowed thickly. This was Sirius without the shadows of Azkaban in his eyes.

Harry scanned the picture for red hair, and found it in droves, though at first not the redhead he was looking for. In a small cluster stood four redheads; Molly and Arthur Weasley, looking so very young, and just behind them a pair of tall, identical men, smiling in a way that hit Harry like a punch to the stomach. “Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Molly’s brothers,” Moody was saying pointing at the picture. “Went down like heroes, both of them. Took five Death Eaters to take them out.”

The men Fred and George were named in honour of. The uncles they idolised, though didn’t remember. The Prewetts looked different to the Weasley twins, a bit more like Bill, but the roguish grins were the same ones Harry was familiar with.

Feeling his palms grow clammy with anxiety, Harry forced himself to keep looking at the picture— and at last, he saw them. “There you are. Thought you might like that,” Moody said, seeing where Harry’s gaze had landed.

Lily and James Potter, stood either side of a watery-eyed man that could only be a young Peter Pettigrew. Harry ignored the wave of revulsion in his gut at the sight of the man, focusing on his parents. God, they were so _young_. James Potter beamed up at him with pride in his eyes, one hand twined with Lily’s. Harry saw the engagement ring on his mother’s hand, and the lack of wedding rings on both of them. They weren’t even married, yet. They had no idea what was to become of them.

His throat felt like it was closing up. He looked up at Moody, who was grinning, looking pleased with himself. Harry wasn’t sure why this was hitting him so hard — he’d seen pictures of his parents before, even pictures of them with Wormtail, but… to see how few people in that picture were alive and well today, see what the first war with Voldemort had cost them…

What a second might cost them, if he wasn’t fast enough. In the back of his mind, he saw Fred and George’s faces instead of the Prewett brothers, imagined looking at a picture of all of his friends after half of them had died fighting. He felt sick.

“You alright, lad?” Moody asked suddenly, gaze narrowing. Then he snorted. “S’pose not, all things considered. Listen, I’ll be busy sending your friends off safely to the train tomorrow — even without you there, we can’t take the risk someone might attack them just to hurt you — but the day after, I’ll come by and put you through your paces. See what we’ve got to work with, with that wandless magic of yours.”

Still reeling at the information that his friends needed a guard to go to the station because of him, Harry could do nothing but nod.

“Yeah. Sounds great. Look, thanks for showing me this, but I’ve got to— I forgot— something,” he finished lamely, fleeing the table. Moody didn’t seem to mind; Sirius had just called his name, asking what it was he was showing Harry. Harry was glad for the escape, slipping out of the kitchen before anyone could notice him. His heart was racing, his stomach churning. He squared his jaw determinedly.

He would not let his friends end up like the original Order. He would stop Voldemort before he could kill many more. He would work with Moody, and Tonks and Kinglsey, and Bill and Sirius and Remus and whoever else happened to offer their expertise. And more importantly, he would scour the Black library for any mention of immortality he could find, and he would demand Albus Dumbledore tell him what he’d found regarding the things Voldemort might have done to protect himself. He would leave no stone unturned.

“Harry, are you alright?”

He whipped around, only half surprised to see George approaching. The one person who would have noticed him leaving.

“Yeah. It’s just all a bit much, y’know?” he said, attempting a smile that came out more like a grimace. George’s eyes dimmed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, stepping in closer. The pair of them were mostly hidden from the kitchen door now, leaning against the wall in the little alcove under the stairs. Under other circumstances, Harry’s stomach might have been filled with butterflies. Now, though, it just felt heavy and sour. “You sure you’re okay?” George dipped his head in concern. “You look…” He trailed off, and Harry managed a weak smirk.

“What are you implying, Weasley?” he joked feebly. George flashed a smile.

“Just that you’re not at your usual level of blinding handsomeness,” he retorted. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“It’s fine. Just— Mad-Eye had this picture, of the original Order. Thought I might like to see my parents in it.”

George’s face shuttered, his jaw tightening. He knew all too well who was in the original Order. “Blimey. Man sure knows how to be a downer,” he muttered.

“Right?” Harry shook his head. “I just… they lost so many people, that first time round. I don’t want it happening again.”

“It won’t,” George assured. “Everyone knows better, this time. And the Death Eaters are weaker than they were back then. Most of the worst ones are dead or in Azkaban.”

That made Harry feel a little better, but not by much.

“Moody says he’ll be over to start working with me the day after tomorrow,” he volunteered.

“Brace yourself, then,” George joked. He sobered up, the serious expression looking out of place on his usually jovial face. “Harry, I—“ He froze, cocking his head. “Hang on, d’you hear that?”

Between the muffled noise from the kitchen and his own heartbeat in his ears, Harry struggled to hear much of anything, but he concentrated. After a moment, he heard it too — it sounded like someone sobbing. “What—“

“It’s Mum,” George realised in alarm, pulling away from Harry. His wand was in his hand as he tore up the stairs, his long legs getting him up there much faster than Harry. When Harry caught up with him at the entrance to the drawing room, his eyes went round in horror. Mrs Weasley was in the middle of the room, and there on the ground in front of her was Ron — dead.

Harry’s blood went cold. How was that possible? Ron was just downstairs! Mrs Weasley let out a loud sob, pointing her wand at Ron’s body with a shaking hand. “R-Riddikulus,” she stuttered. There was a loud crack, and suddenly it was Bill’s body, spread-eagled and pale on the ground. George sucked in a sharp breath.

“Mum?”

“R-Riddikulus!” Mrs Weasley tried again, moaning at the sight of her husband’s body on the floor, his glasses askew.

Again, dead twins.

Again, dead Percy.

Again, dead Harry.

At this, George let out a noise like a wounded animal. Harry shoved past him, throwing himself between Mrs Weasley and the boggart. There was a crack, and the room plunged into icy cold — but only for a split second, before Harry was pushed away, and another crack sounded. This time the boggart hung in the air, a silvery orb. Remus kept one arm protectively in front of Harry, the other holding his wand outstretched as he calmly banished the boggart.

The room was silent, but for Mrs Weasley’s distraught moaning. Remus didn’t let go of Harry’s shoulder, his face pale. Harry wondered if he’d seen Harry’s dead body on the ground.

“Molly, come on.” Harry’s head snapped up, seeing Sirius gently pat Mrs Weasley’s shoulder. “It’s alright, it was just a boggart; the kids are safe, Arthur’s safe. Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?”

Mrs Weasley finally seemed to snap back to the present, growing all the more flustered when she realised she had an audience. “Oh, Harry. _George_. I’m s-so sorry— you had to see— oh, look at me, n-not even able to deal with a— a silly little boggart!” She was full-on sobbing now, and George hurried to pull his mother into a hug, her head on his shoulder. He was milk white beneath his freckles, a haunted look on his face. He met Harry’s gaze over his mother’s hair, brown eyes filled with pain.

“D-don’t tell your father,” Mrs Weasley cried, burying her face in George’s shirt. “Don’t want him to worry. M’being silly.”

“Don’t be daft, Mum,” George soothed, rubbing her back. “It’s not silly to worry about us all.”

Harry could do nothing but stand there numbly, Remus’ hand still on his shoulder, as Mrs Weasley cried about half the family being in the Order, how dangerous it had been before and was still. His mind flashed back to Moody’s picture. She had lost so much in the first war — it was no wonder she was worried about the second. It had been her brothers and her husband last time, now it was her _children_.

“Come on, cub,” Remus murmured, gently steering Harry towards the door. “Let’s give them a moment.”

Harry realised Moody was there too — his magic eye must have seen the commotion from the kitchen. He wondered if it had been following him since he’d left the party. Had Moody been watching him talk to George?

He looked back at the tall redhead, adrift without his twin, trying to comfort his mother even when he looked like he could use some comfort himself. Harry’s stomach churned.

What would George Weasley’s boggart be?

Remus led him from the room, and as soon as they were out of the way, he grabbed him in a rib-crushing hug. “Scared me half to death, seeing you on the floor like that,” he muttered. That answered that question.

“I’m okay, Moony. I’m okay.” Harry wasn’t sure which of them he was reassuring. Remus just held him tighter.

A moment later, a second, taller body joined in the hug, wrapping long arms around Harry and Remus both. “Sodding boggarts,” Sirius muttered, voice choked with emotion. Remus snorted weakly.

Harry couldn’t have said how long it was before the three of them finally broke apart. Sirius looked at him, his grey eyes watery. “You okay, pup? I know what Mad-Eye showed you. That can’t have been easy to see.”

“I— it’s fine.” Harry couldn’t lie and say he was alright, not to Sirius. “I think I’ll just go to bed. Big day tomorrow.” Now, the thought of staying behind while all his friends went off to Hogwarts felt like the worst thing in the world.

“Yeah. Good plan.” Sirius swallowed hard, hugging him roughly once more. “Fudge might’ve been a bastard to expel you, but at least it means you’re here where I can keep an eye on you,” he said. “Go on, get some sleep. We’ll… we’ll sort things out here.”

It was hard to wrench himself away from the pair, but Harry managed it, dragging his feet up the stairs on the way to his room. Mrs Weasley’s gasping sobs faded from his hearing, disappearing entirely once he shut the door behind him. He crossed over to his bed, sinking onto the mattress and squeezing his eyes shut.

All he could see when he did was the lifeless faces of Fred and George Weasley, glassy eyes staring back at him. He shuddered.

Wondering how long the party would keep going downstairs — whether he had long enough to pretend to have fallen asleep by the time Ron came in — Harry reached for his pyjamas, only to whip around when the door creaked. It opened just wide enough for a tall form to slink inside, and suddenly he was staring at the very much alive face of George Weasley, eyes red-rimmed.

“Sorry,” George blurted, glancing down at the sleepwear in Harry’s hand. “I just. I had to— to make sure you were— I had to see you.”

Harry’s chest clenched, his heart _ached_ , and nothing in the world could have stopped him from hugging George right then. Strong arms held him close, a hand cupping the back of his head. George’s shoulders shook violently.

“You be careful, alright? While I’m at school?” George whispered, voice cracking in a way Harry had never heard from the older boy. “Don’t do anything stupid, Potter. Not ’til I get back.”

“I’ll try my best,” Harry replied, knowing he couldn’t make that promise, knowing he’d do whatever he damn well had to in order to stop Mrs Weasley’s nightmares becoming reality. “You, either. Nothing stupid at school.”

When George pulled back, his eyes were still watery, his face barely inches from Harry’s. Harry’s heart ached even more fiercely, and he _almost_ bridged that gap, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It wasn’t the time. George was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow. Harry wouldn’t see him ’til Christmas.

“Nothing stupid,” George assured. The roguish grin he attempted was quivering at the edges. “Only genius, as always.”

Harry couldn’t help but snort, shaking his head and shoving the redhead away. “Go to bed,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got adoring fans to sell pranks to on the train tomorrow. Got to get your beauty sleep.”

“No amount of sleep could improve this beauty,” George retorted, regaining himself a little. He offered Harry a jaunty half-bow, and a smile that hit like a punch to the gut, even with his bloodshot eyes. “Sleep tight, Harrikins.”

With that he snuck from the room, and Harry was alone again. He let out a long, steadying breath. Fuck, he wished he was going back to school tomorrow. Things would be so different if he was.

He turned back to his pyjamas, letting himself indulge in his wistful imaginings as he readied himself for bed. Maybe then he might have good dreams of a certain smirking Weasley, instead of nightmares about seeing him dead on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Getting ready to leave for Hogwarts at Grimmauld Place was much like it was at the Burrow — with the addition of Walburga Black screaming her head off from the hallway, everyone having long since given up trying to silence her when she just got woken again five minutes later.

Harry felt like a ghost observing it all, nothing to do but pick at his breakfast and offer noncommittal answers every time Ron asked him if he’d seen his book, or his jumper, or his socks. No one had asked him if he was coming to the platform with them, or even implied it might be an option — Moody was concerned about safety enough as it was. Harry was glad for the easy excuse. If he had to stand there and watch the train pull away, it would break him.

The only bright spot was just after breakfast, when he slunk up to the twins’ room — they were packing away their little brewing station with carefully controlled chaos, Fred tossing items across the room at George, who organised them properly in his trunk. Harry’s entrance saw George hit in the face with something that looked like a bright orange marshmallow, and the dark-haired Gryffindor snorted.

“Alright, Harry. Do I need to scarper?” Fred greeted, looking between his friend and his twin with raised eyebrows. Harry blushed, wondering why people had suddenly started commenting on things so blatantly. Then he wondered if George had said anything about Mrs Weasley’s boggart last night.

“No, I wanted to talk to both of you.” That intrigued the pair, and they stopped their work to offer him a seat on George’s bed. Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out the pair of mirrors. “Sirius gave these to me yesterday,” he began, giving the twins the same explanation he himself had been given. “I thought — if I give you guys one, and I’ll have the other.”

“Don’t you want to give it to Ron? Or Hermione?” George asked, brow furrowed. “They’re your best friends.”

“Do you really think I can trust them to be honest with me about how stuff’s going?” Harry retorted. “They’ll lie their arses off to make me feel better, whatever’s happening. You two won’t. And — you can tell me, if they’re not doing alright.” He wasn’t so arrogant as to think they wouldn’t cope without him there, but… he had some minor concerns.

“Ah, I see. You just want us to tell you how much everyone else misses you,” Fred drawled teasingly. “I suppose I can be the voice of truth, if nothing else. Not sure how truthful this one’ll be,” he joked, nudging his twin.

“You can tell me how all your pranks and stuff are going, too,” Harry added, smiling at the thought of having the twins recount their masterpieces. If he couldn’t be there in person, it was the next best thing. “Also, Sirius says they’re not legal, and I figured you two would care less about that than Hermione.”

“Oi! We’re being maligned, here, Forge. He’s insulting our character!” George yelped, grinning.

“Don’t know what you want me to do about it,” Fred retorted. He plucked the mirror from Harry’s hands, turning to place it carefully in his trunk. “We’ll call at least once a week, keep you in the loop,” he promised. “And we won’t tell the prissy prefects. Don’t want anyone getting into trouble.” He winked, and Harry laughed.

“Merlin forbid,” he agreed dryly. He got to his feet, clasping his hands together somewhat awkwardly. “I’ll let you finish packing. Don’t have to lie to your mum if I haven’t seen what’s in your trunks,” he joked. Fred gave him a searching look, then turned that same look on George, before nodding.

“Yeah, probably for the best,” he muttered. Harry got the feeling he wasn’t talking about their packing habits.

George met Harry’s eyes, lips curved ruefully. “We’ll save all the embarrassing goodbyes for when we’ve got an audience. Maybe cry a bit,” he said. Harry’s returning smile was trying very hard not to be sad.

“Let’s see if you can outdo Hermione, then,” he said, instead of the dozens of other things he could’ve said, wanted to say, wasn’t ready to say.

He left the twins alone, feeling like someone had his heart in a vice grip. He grit his teeth, shaking the thoughts from his head before they could take root. He knew better. Now was not the time.

.-.

The twins did not outdo Hermione in the crying department, though they gave it their best shot, sobbing dramatically into their sleeves as they waved at Harry across the entrance hall. “Farewell, dear friend,” Fred cried, waving an imaginary handkerchief. “Do not forget the times we’ve shared!”

“Oh, stop it, both of you!” Mrs Weasley scolded, real tears in her own eyes. She looked like having to leave Harry behind was causing her physical pain. Looking at her made Harry’s chest hurt.

“We’ll see you at Christmas, yeah, mate?” Ron muttered, giving Harry a rough, quick hug. Harry didn’t think he’d been hugged so much in his entire life as he had in the last two weeks.

“If you haven’t drowned in homework,” Harry joked — the twins had been taunting Ron with how much work the teachers loaded you with in OWL year, as if they weren’t entering their NEWT year which would be far, far worse. No one expected the twins to actually do their homework.

Hermione bit her lip against another wave of tears, and held Crookshanks’ carrier close to her chest. “Write soon,” she requested. “And be careful.”

“If we don’t get moving soon, we’ll be wide open to pre-meditated attack,” Mad-Eye Moody barked, smacking his staff down on the tiled floor. “Always be one step ahead of the enemy.”

He was clearly fed up with the displays of emotion, and began to herd everyone out the front door. Harry stood on the bottom step, keeping his jaw clenched and his face resolute, trying not to show how much his heart was breaking at watching all his friends leave. George glanced over his shoulder one last time, gaze meeting Harry’s, and offered a supportive nod.

Harry let out a steady breath. He could handle this.

The door shut behind the large group. Silence filled the house for the first time all morning — Mrs Black had given up screaming and being ignored about twenty minutes ago.

A hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, pulling him back against a thin chest. Sirius’ long hair brushed his cheek as the animagus leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. “You’ll be alright, pup. So will they.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a shaky sigh. He drank in the comfort from his godfather, blinking back the sting in his eyes.

A new year at Hogwarts was about to begin, and Harry would not be part of it.

After a long silence, he cleared his throat, turning to look at Sirius. “You said you remembered the counter-charm for that sticking spell?” he prompted, wanting nothing more than to be distracted right then. Sirius grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and nodded.

“I think so, yeah. Come on, let’s give it a go, then you can move your trunk up. Good thing you’ve practiced all those cleaning charms lately, because you’re gonna need them!”

Harry laughed, a rusty, stilted sound, and followed his godfather up the stairs.

.-.-.

Neither of them said a word when the clock in the hallway chimed eleven. Harry shot spell after spell at the dusty desk and musty sheets, refusing to think for a second about what his friends were up to on the train. Whether the trolley had been by yet. Who they were sitting with — how many people had cornered them for details about Harry’s expulsion. There hadn’t been any more Rita Skeeter articles on the subject after the first; or Rita Skeeter articles at all, from what he saw. There was no announcement of the reporter’s illegal animagus form, but Tonks looked smug every time someone mentioned the newspaper, so Harry figured something had been done.

He didn’t envy Hermione and the Weasleys, having to answer the same questions a hundred times over from people who had no right asking after Harry’s private business. At least he wasn’t having to deal with that in person, for once.

He and Sirius cobbled together lunch from some leftovers in the cold box, getting some derisive mutters from Kreacher about filthy traitors in his kitchen before Sirius slammed the door in the elf’s face. Then Harry was drafted into the all-too satisfying task of helping Sirius burn his parents’ old bed, along with all the hippogriff feathers still in the room.

“I hope Buckbeak’s doing alright in his new herd,” Harry mused, floating a large feather into the fire in the centre of the room, kept carefully behind shield charms thanks to Sirius. The bed wasn’t the only piece of furniture he’d decided to burn — there was an ancient-looking bureau, and a truly hideous wardrobe still full of ladies’ formal robes. Harry was just glad they’d been able to open a window.

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you start a bloody great big fire.”

They whipped around at the new voice, Sirius grinning at Remus. “Moony! Come to join the party?”

“Come to check you two didn’t hurt yourselves while I was gone,” the sandy-haired man teased in reply. “I brought my things over. Looks like you’re stuck with me now.” He patted his cardigan pocket, which was bulging.

Sirius beamed.

Harry didn’t ask about how the trip to the platform had gone. He wasn’t surprised that Remus was the only one here — with the kids at school, Mrs Weasley had no excuse not to go back to the Burrow, though she’d insisted she’d be through to check on Harry and Sirius at least once a week. She didn’t seem to trust them to cook for themselves. Did she not know that was one of Harry’s specialties, thanks to the Dursleys?

Instead, he turned back to the fire, nudging the escaping sleeve of a crimson satin dress robe back into the embers with a burst of magic. He had to keep his mind off of the Hogwarts Express. Thank God Sirius was always good for a distraction.

.-.-.

Harry’s room — his room, now, truly, with a little nameplate on the front and everything. Staring at it made his throat close up — kept him busy for most of the day. Or rather, his trunk did. Having run out of excuses, he finally decided to empty his trunk and organise his things, now he had a wardrobe to put them in. There were still some of teenage Sirius’ clothes in there, too, and Sirius had insisted Harry keep them. A couple of band t-shirts, a smart-looking dark blue robe, a pair of red corduroy trousers that Harry couldn’t _ever_ see himself wearing but that Sirius insisted had been the height of fashion back in the day.

It was ridiculous, the amount of random detritus that had collected in Harry’s school trunk over the last four years. That was what happened when you lived out of it, he supposed; he’d never had a place permanent enough to bother emptying it entirely.

Stacking four years worth of school books on the newly dusted bookshelf, he tossed out all the sweet wrappers and crumpled balls of parchment and broken quills he found along the way, levitating his Gryffindor uniform into a corner of the room. He could keep the shirts and trousers, but he wasn’t sure what to do with the robes, ties and jumpers. Or his quidditch uniform.

He spent a lot of time with that crimson robe in his lap, fingers running over the bright gold lettering of his name on the back. Of all the things he’d miss about Hogwarts, he’d probably miss quidditch the most.

That was how Sirius found him, when he came up to ask about dinner; sat on his bed, staring down at his quidditch robe, eyes red but no longer full of tears. He was all cried out by now. “Oh, pup,” Sirius sighed, sitting down beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Harry responded automatically. “Not sure what to do with all this, though.” He gestured to the pile of Gryffindor paraphernalia. He’d chucked everything even remotely red and gold on the pile, even though he knew there were t-shirts and hoodies he would want to keep. Right now he couldn’t imagine ever feeling comfortable wearing them again.

“There’s an old suitcase in the guest room I’ve been sleeping in; we can put it in there for now. Don’t want to throw it all away just yet.” Sirius paused, offering a sharp smile. “Could sell it for good money a few years down the line — genuine school uniform of the Boy-Who-Lived! Clothes that have touched his actual skin!”

Harry snorted, shoving Sirius’ shoulder. “Git,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.”You and Moony all settled?”

Sirius startled. “What? Oh, yeah, he’s all unpacked. Brought enough books to fill his own library with, the nerd. Says you might want to look at them.” He shot Harry an amused look. “You planning on encountering South-Asian water demons any time soon? Think I saw a book about those in the mix. Or ancient legendary desert-dwellers?”

“Merlin, I hope not,” Harry muttered, earning a bark of laughter. “Could be interesting to read, though.”

“Godric help me, you’re as bad as he is,” Sirius accused. Harry rolled his eyes. “You about ready for dinner? Thought we’d keep working through the mountain Molly left us with, save having to order in groceries for a week or so. Or, y’know, the next six months, the way that woman cooks.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Harry agreed, setting the robe aside and getting to his feet.

“You been through the rest of my old stuff, yet? Bet there’s all sorts of shit lying around. I wasn’t known for tidiness when I was your age.”

“Or ever,” Harry remarked dryly.

“Rude. Maybe I won’t let you have my old clothes after all.”

“Oh, no, what a loss,” came Harry’s deadpan response.

“You little bugger.” Sirius elbowed him in the ribs. “Do let me know if you find anything good, though.”

“I’ll give you a yell if I come across your old love letters, don’t worry,” Harry teased, watching his godfather’s face redden. That was interesting — “Oh my God, do you actually have love letters?”

“Only ones he wrote to himself.” Remus met them on the stairs, keeping his voice hushed to avoid the wrath of Mrs Black. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Y’know what, I’ve changed my mind — I don’t like you two ganging up on me. Get out of my house,” Sirius said, though was promptly ignored.

“Should I be scared about what I might find in his desk?” Harry asked Remus, feigning worry. Remus grinned at him.

“Nah, he’d have taken all his favourite love letters with him to James’ house. It’s his old flat that’s the danger zone — I went there to grab him some clothes when he moved in here, and Merlin only knows what else is lying about over there.”

“I didn’t know you had a flat,” Harry commented, pushing open the door to the kitchen. Kreacher was inside, though he quickly made himself scarce at the sight of them.

“Inherited it from my Uncle Alphard,” Sirius replied. “Moved in after James and Lily got engaged; couldn’t stand being the third wheel to that love-fest anymore. The Ministry’s had a watch on it since I escaped, of course, in case I go back. Kingsley snuck Remus in to get my stuff.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If I ever get free, I’ll have to take you there sometime. I loved that flat.”

Harry felt a pang of sympathy for Sirius, trapped in this house until there was some sort of evidence to get him a trial — unlikely in Fudge’s government.

“Just make sure you clean it first,” he joked instead, wrinkling his nose. “There are some things a kid doesn’t need to learn about his godfather.”

“Brat,” came the immediate retort. Harry grinned. Living with Sirius and Remus was going to be great.

He only spent a little bit of time thinking about the welcoming feast at Hogwarts. Remus and Sirius were good at keeping him distracted, first with stories of Sirius’ flat — which Remus had apparently lived in, too, for a time — then by going back up to his room and testing him on his wandless magic. They sat on the floor with his old schoolbooks in hand, going through every spell he should have learned from first year onwards, making sure Harry could do them without his wand. That lasted long into the evening, and they only got to the end of third year; there were more spells in those books than Harry even realised he’d picked up on in the last few years, and once they got on the subject Sirius was begging for stories about _Professor Lupin_ , telling Harry that he and James had been teasing Remus with the moniker for years, and the briefcase he’d taken to school with ‘Professor R J Lupin’ embossed on it had actually been a joke present for the werewolf’s seventeenth birthday, courtesy of Sirius himself.

It almost felt like being back in the Gryffindor common room — better, even. It felt like family.

That night, his first night in his new room, he stared down at the two-way mirror in his hand, pressing his lips together to stop himself from calling the twins. He couldn’t be that needy. He was fifteen years old, for crying out loud. He’d stood up to Albus Dumbledore. He’d spent most of the summer alone at Privet Drive. He didn’t need to call his friends the first night being away from them.

But when he fell asleep, the mirror was still in his hand, just in case they decided to call him.


	7. Chapter 7

As promised, Mad-Eye Moody arrived shortly after breakfast on September 2nd, limping into the kitchen and offering Harry a terse nod. “You ready, Potter?” he asked, not even bothering with a greeting. Harry jumped to his feet, knocking back the last of his tea.

“Absolutely.” He was vibrating out of his skin with the need to do something, anything to ignore the fact that he wasn’t at school. It felt like a switch had flicked in his mind overnight — the summer was over, his friends were gone, and now it was time to put his money where his mouth was and get to work on everything he’d told the Order he’d do, to stop them worrying about his expulsion.

He wasn’t a kid anymore. He had a war to win. It was time to get to work.

Sirius and Remus asked if he wanted them to come with him, but Harry shook his head, following Moody upstairs to the small ballroom, which was just a large empty room now with moth-eaten drapes and a couple of dark wood tables stacked against the wall. “Right, then. I’ve heard a lot about you, Potter, from a lot of different sources. Most of it’s probably codswallop, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Moody barked, his electric blue eye fixed unerringly on Harry. Harry smirked.

“Anything you’ve read in the Prophet is crap,” he said without missing a beat, making the ex-auror snort.

“Obviously.” He jerked a nod. “And I’ve told you I won’t have any of that Professor nonsense from you — I never taught a single damn class, and the student body will be glad of it. So don’t assume I know anything about your casting style; that wasn’t me, last year.” He leaned on his staff, gesturing for Harry to stand in front of him. “I’ll start you out easy, lad. See what I’m working with.” He raised his wand, scarred lips pulling back in a vicious smirk. “Let’s see how you handle yourself in a duel.”

And they began.

.-.-.

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d expected from his training with Moody, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he got. First, they’d duelled, Moody declaring he wanted to see what spells Harry defaulted to in a fight. Then, he forbade Harry from using any magic at all, seeing how well he could dodge. Luckily, after years of living with Dudley, that was something Harry excelled at. Moody made a lot of approving noises at that, firing spells at Harry in quick succession. After he eventually got bored of that, he let Harry stop for a glass of water — making sure he checked it for hexes first.

“I bet Kingsley wishes his latest batch of trainees had your reflexes!” he remarked. Harry preened at the compliment. “You’ve a solid base to start with. Your repertoire’s a little basic, but I can fix that. You’ve got the instinct in you, and that’s the important part.” Moody folded his arms over his chest, leaning his forearms on his staff. “So, what are you aiming for, here?”

“Pardon?” Harry looked at him, puzzled. Both the real and the fake eye fixed on him.

“You looking to learn a few impressive hexes to reassure your friends you’re coping without them? Or are you here to learn how to handle yourself if you get ambushed by Death Eaters?” His tone held a challenge, and Harry didn’t back down from it.

“I’m here to learn anything you can teach me that might help me bring down Voldemort,” he replied unflinchingly. “Whether it’s legal or not. I don’t have a wand, there’s no Trace on me. Figured that means what Fudge doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“What Fudge doesn’t know could fill libraries,” Moody muttered derisively. When he scanned Harry, there was something like approval in his gaze, his grizzled face contorted in something that might’ve been a grin of sorts. “And what if Albus comes in and tells me you’re too young to be learning what you want me to teach you?”

“He’s not my guardian,” Harry retorted quickly. “And he’s not my headmaster. I don’t really care what he thinks I should and shouldn’t be learning.”

Abruptly, Moody smacked his staff on the hardwood floor — and smiled wolfishly. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Right, lad — buckle up. We’re jumping in at the deep end.” He reached into his leather trench coat, pulling out something small, which with a wave of his wand grew to become a classroom-sized chalkboard, already covered in messy handwriting and diagrams. “Shacklebolt bet me I couldn’t get you to trainee level before his class full of imbeciles graduated training,” he declared. “That’s not a bet I’m willing to lose. You hear?”

Harry nodded, trying not to smile. “Yes, sir,” he barked, which only made Moody snort.

“None of your cheek,” he scolded lightly. Then he turned to the chalkboard, using his wand as a pointer. “We’ll start here, with defensive spells. You’ll need to learn when to shield and when to duck; if in doubt, just duck. Tell me, Potter; can you cast from both hands without your wand?”

“I haven’t really tried, to be honest,” Harry admitted. It was always instinctual to use his right hand.

“Well we’re going to find out. The element of surprise is key, especially for you. You’ll be facing people older, meaner, and more experienced than you — if you try and play nice, you’ll be dead in a heartbeat. There’s no room for manners in war.” Moody limped over, looking Harry in the eye. “No room for disarming charms and stunning spells, either. Leaving your opponent alive means they can escape to kill someone you care about. If you’ve not got the stomach to kill, take off their wand arm. Think you can handle that?”

“I didn’t think Voldemort was going to be beaten with a jelly-legs jinx,” Harry responded evenly. “Don’t think I get a choice whether or not I’ve got the stomach to kill.”

To his surprise, Moody softened, ever so slightly. “You’ve always got a choice, lad. Might just be a tough one.”

Harry appreciated the attempt, but they both knew there was no real choice in the matter. Moody might not know the prophecy — Harry wasn’t sure, and hadn’t asked — but he had to know what Harry was facing.

Unbidden, Harry’s mind flashed back to Professor Quirrell, face blistering under Harry’s small eleven year-old hands, writhing away even as Harry grabbed him again and again, knowing exactly what he was doing to the man.

He had the stomach to kill. He just need to work on the method.

.-.-.-.

With his focus fixed firmly back on the task at hand, Harry had entirely forgotten about his conversation with Bill Weasley during the party for Ron and Hermione. He’d almost forgotten about the letter from Fleur, until he’d fished it out of his jeans pocket while moving rooms. He had a response written, genuinely pleased to hear from the French girl, but getting it to her had slipped his mind in the face of his new training.

So he was surprised when Bill appeared through the kitchen fireplace one morning, strolling in and grabbing a scone off the counter without hesitation. “Morning, all,” he greeted, smiling at the three confused faces. “Mind if I borrow Harry for a bit? Gringotts business. Nothing bad,” he added quickly, when Sirius’ lips turned down. “I just promised to get him a meeting with his account manager.”

That made the dog animagus relax, and he leaned back in his chair. “Good call,” he said with an approving nod. “You might not be old enough to inherit the title, but now you’re not at school you should take a more active role in the family finances. See what you’re allowed to work with before you’re of age. James made some good investments back after Phee and Monty died, but that was twenty-odd years ago now, things have likely changed.”

“There’s a title?” Harry asked, bewildered. Sirius’ grey eyes narrowed, then glanced to Bill.

“He thinks the trust vault is all he has,” the eldest Weasley volunteered. Sirius cursed.

“Bloody Dumbledore.” He rolled his eyes, then waved Harry to his feet. “He’s all yours, Bill; just have him back by three, Tonks is coming over to play.” He grinned. “Harry, go change into that blue robe I gave you. Your grandmother would come back to haunt me if I let you go meet Stonehook looking like a scruffy muggle.”

Harry would’ve argued, but he couldn’t deny Dudley’s hand-me-downs had seen better days. And he was a little overdue a haircut.

Harry did as he was told, wondering exactly what he was about to get himself into. The robe fit surprisingly well, and Harry tried to neaten his hair the best he could before returning to meet Bill in the kitchen. Sirius nodded. “Here, give this to your account manager,” he instructed, handing over a piece of parchment. Harry looked down at it.

‘ _I, Lord Sirius Orion Black, head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, do hereby confirm Harry James Potter as my heir in name and blood, to be allowed all the privileges and responsibilities of my heir henceforth, as if he were my own issue.’_

Sirius’ signature was an elaborate flourish at the bottom, and it was stamped in black wax with a crest Harry only recognised from seeing embossed on silverware in the cupboards they’d been clearing out.

Keeping his questions to himself, Harry pocketed the note and hoped it would make sense to him sometime soon.

“Keep your head down in the alley, cub,” Remus warned. “Don’t want to let people know you’re there if you can help it.”

“I’ll take him in the staff entrance,” Bill assured. “You ready, Harry?”

“Let’s go.”

Harry wasn’t really sure what he was getting into, but he followed Bill’s instruction that they had to floo together, squeezing into the fireplace with the tall Weasley and holding his breath as ash swirled around them.

Bill stopped him from flying face-first out of the floo, keeping an arm around his shoulders and strolling out as if he’d barely paused in his stride.

Harry looked around, recognising the flawless white marble walls of the bank, though he’d never seen this part of it before. It was bustling with activity, both human and goblin alike, and only a couple of people looked up at their arrival. They nodded at Bill, then turned back to their work, not sparing Harry a second glance. “This way,” Bill urged, steering him towards a corridor to their left. “Now, I can’t stick around for the meeting itself — privacy and all that — but Stonehook will call for me once he’s finished with you. Just be polite, and show your teeth when you smile.”

With that instruction, he knocked on a door, opening it without waiting for confirmation. “Harry Potter for you, Account Manager Stonehook,” he declared, nodding sharply to the goblin sat behind the desk.

Stonehook was grey-haired and had a puckered silvery scar across his wrinkled jaw, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked at Harry. Harry tried not to squirm.

“Thank you, Cursebreaker Weasley. You may go.”

Bill clapped Harry on the shoulder, then left him alone in the goblin’s office. Doing his best not to look uncomfortable, Harry offered the goblin a short nod, having never once seen one offer to shake a wizard’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Account Manager Stonehook,” he greeted cautiously, using the same title Bill had offered.

“I expected to meet you long before now, Mr Potter,” Stonehook told him. “Take a seat, we have much to discuss.”

Harry settled into the wooden chair opposite the desk, his hands clasped in his lap. “I didn’t know I was supposed to meet you. I’m sorry.”

The goblin waved a dismissive hand. “It is not your fault you were uninformed. At least I have you here before you come of age.” He sat forward in his chair, reaching for a stack of papers. “Cursebreaker Weasley tells me you have not been told of your heritage, or any vault other than your trust vault.”

“I— I was raised by muggles.”

Stonehook narrowed his gaze at that. “Indeed. Well, that cannot be helped, I suppose.” He slid the papers towards Harry. “Mr Potter, it is my pleasure to inform you that you are the sole heir to the Ancient House of Potter, following the death of your parents in 1981. My condolences,” he added. Harry stiffened.

“Thank you. I—“ He looked down at the papers, seeing numbers that made his head spin. “Ancient House of Potter? What does that mean, exactly? Oh,” he added hurriedly, reaching into his pocket for Sirius’ note. “I was asked to give you this.”

The goblin studied the note with pursed lips, murmured something in Gobbledegook that made the paper glow purple, then nodded sharply. “That is all in order. I shall coordinate with Fangblade, the Black family account manager. Might I assume that any correspondance for Lord Black himself may be passed on through you? Your Ministry’s sentencing forbids us from contacting him directly.”

Stonehook looked like he didn’t much care for what the Ministry thought of Sirius, or of anything. Harry warmed to the goblin instantly. “Yes, anything for him can be sent to me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“Very good.” Stonehook set the note aside, and shuffled his chair closer, pointing with one long finger to the first passage on the papers. “The Ancient House of Potter has been doing business with Gringotts bank since the bank’s inception, and management of the account has been in my family for just as long. Your gold has been guarded faithfully by my ancestors for many generations, Mr Potter, and it is my honour to do so for you now. The matter of your titles and privileges within your Ministry are not under my purview, though they are twined with your inheritance, and many wizards believe Gringotts to be the keepers of such titles. Let me make this clear, Mr Potter — we have no need for the laws and rulings of wizards within the Nation. Goblins do not care for the petty squabbles of politicians. Your godfather, Lord Black, may be a criminal in the eyes of the Ministry, but to Gringotts he is still the owner and heir to the Black accounts. He has not wronged the Nation, and thus we still do business with him.” When Stonehook smiled, it was a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Do not try to cheat or steal from a goblin, Mr Potter, and we shall have a prosperous working relationship. My colleagues report that you have always treated goblins with respect, even when you clearly did not know what we were. That is something many wizards cannot claim.”

Harry thought of how people like the Malfoys treated anyone who wasn’t pureblood, anyone they thought was beneath them. He sneered to himself — he could take a good guess how they treated goblins. “Disrespecting those who house your money is something only an idiot would do,” he retorted. This drew a sharp, husky laugh from the goblin.

“You may not have been raised in the House of Potter, but you are clearly of its blood,” he declared, sounding pleased. “Come, Mr Potter, let me tell you of your legacy. You have been kept from it for far too long.”

.-.-.

After an hour in Stonehook’s office, Harry’s head was reeling.

He was _rich_. Like, Malfoy rich.

His family had _centuries_ worth of gold and jewels and investments at the bank — and, according to Stonehook, an entire vault filled with non-monetary objects that he would have access to upon his seventeenth birthday. For now, he could only withdraw from his trust vault, but as the last surviving member of the family he had access to the statements from all his other vaults.

_Vaults. Plural_. There were six of them. His trust vault, the main family finances vault, the investment vault, the objects vault, and the two vaults of Lily and James Potter, which had been sealed since their deaths. “I’m afraid I legally cannot allow you into your parents’ vaults until you are of age.” Stonehook sounded genuinely apologetic about that. “The wills were sealed by your Ministry at the time of their deaths.” He glanced askance. “It is very likely that within those vaults is the truth of Lord Black’s crimes, if no trial is had before your majority.”

Harry bristled. “You mean there’s proof that he’s innocent, just sitting there, and the Ministry won’t let anyone see it?” Stonehook gave a sharp nod.

“While Lord Black’s criminal status does not prevent him from accessing his own vaults, it has negated his legal claim of guardianship. Magically, you are a ward of your Ministry until you come of age, and cannot enter any vault but the trust vault assigned to you without a legal guardian.”

Harry imagined trying to persuade Aunt Petunia to come to a magical bank full of goblins and accompany him into her dead sister’s vault so he could find proof that his mass-murder godfather wasn’t actually a mass-murderer.

Even if he offered her all the gold in his vault, he doubted that would ever happen.

Forcing down his anger, he turned back to Stonehook. “At least I know it’s there, thank you.” If he couldn’t catch Pettigrew before he turned seventeen, he had that at least.

“I make no promises on the contents of the late Potters’ vaults,” Stonehook clarified. “However, both your parents made their wills out under my supervision, with certain stipulations regarding their deaths under particular circumstances.” His beady eyes fixed on Harry’s, gaze pointed. Harry understood — Stonehook knew that Sirius had not been their Secret Keeper, because his parents had said so in their wills.

Damn the Ministry for sealing them. Damn Dumbledore for probably letting them. “How can it be legal, for both their wills to have been sealed when they had a dependant?”

“Many legalities are overlooked in wartime,” Stonehook responded. “The Ministry were assured that appropriate guardianship had been found following the arrest of Sirius Black, and in order to confirm that guardianship they sealed your parents’ wills.”

Harry scowled. If the Ministry wasn’t so corrupt and backwards, Sirius could have had a proper trial. He could have raised Harry from the start.

He forced down the rising swell of emotion; now was not the time to deal with that. Not in front of a goblin he’d only just met. Clearing his throat, he gave a close-lipped smile. “That’s good information to have, thank you, Stonehook. So, what can I do right now? Bill — Cursebreaker Weasley — made it sound like there were things I had to address. And he said something about a bank note book?”

“I can arrange for one of those connected to your trust vault right away,” Stonehook confirmed, writing something down on a piece of parchment that glowed white as soon as he set his quill down. “I believe Cursebreaker Weasley merely intended for you to be informed and prepared for what you stand to inherit when you come of age — ordinarily, heirs will be introduced to their account managers prior to their first year of magical schooling. I can offer you an inheritance test, to see if there is anything you have been bequeathed that we are not already aware of. Many will take these tests to see if they stand to inherit from any bloodlines that may have died out, but the Potter line has been under Gringotts purview for long enough that there are rarely surprises, and your mother submitted an inheritance test prior to joining the family — there were no recognisable magical ancestors in her family tree.”

“I… I think I’ll leave that until I’m of age, if that’s alright?” Harry was just getting to grips with his Potter inheritance. He wasn’t quite ready to add any mystery inheritances to that just yet.

“As you wish. Then all I can do for you now is offer Gringotts’ usual services for account holders of your level — a bank note book, a signet ring, and a muggle credit card should you desire. You are also able to adjust any investments within the family portfolio. I recommend you take that home and study it thoroughly before making any changes. Lord Black will no doubt assist you.” He nudged the papers towards Harry, who shrank and pocketed them.

“Gringotts can do credit cards?” Harry’s brows rose in surprise. Stonehook’s eyes brightened.

“Goblins do not waste opportunities to increase wealth, Mr Potter. Muggle money can be just as valuable as any gold, in the right circumstances.” He leaned back in his chair. “Is that something that would interest you?”

“Absolutely.” Harry had never had more than five pounds of muggle money to call his own before. To have a card that would convert the pile of gold in his vault to something he could use outside the wizarding world… he couldn’t pass that up.

Stonehook wrote on his parchment, which glowed once more. Then he opened his desk drawer, pulling out a blue velvet pouch. “A money purse, linked to your trust vault. Three drops of blood will bind it to your magic, so only you can open it.” The goblin handed Harry an ornate silver dagger with the Potter crest on the handle. Harry cut his hand with the tip of the sharp blade, letting blood fall onto the pouch. There was a quiet crackle, and Stonehook nodded. Harry healed his hand with a murmured spell, and cleaned the dagger too.

When he opened the purse, there were three things inside — a sleek white credit card with his name and the Gringotts logo; a gold ring with the Potter crest; and a bound sheaf of parchment slips that looked very much like a checkbook indeed. Reverently, Harry slid the ring onto the pinky of his left hand, jolting when it resized to fit him with a sizzle of magic. Stonehook nodded. “The ring has accepted your right to wear it. Congratulations, Heir Potter.”

Harry looked down at the ring, awed. This was something his father would have worn — and his grandfather, and great grandfather, and Merlin only knew how many Potters after him. “It can only be removed with your approval,” Stonehook informed him. “Should anyone not entitled to the ring attempt to wear it, they will find themselves missing a finger.” He gave a bloodthirsty grin, and Harry smirked.

“Good to know.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Heir Potter, or should I summon Cursebreaker Weasley?”

Harry paused, thoughts drifting back to an absent idea he’d had while writing his letter to Fleur. “That depends. You mentioned Gringotts is responsible for many legal documents — can you provide muggle passports?”

Stonehook blinked, but didn’t ask Harry to elaborate, only nodding. “We can indeed. I can have one to you in a week, for a small fee.”

“Please do.”

It was just an idea. But once he talked to Fleur, maybe it could be something.


	8. Chapter 8

When Bill retrieved Harry from Stonehook’s office, he was surprised when Harry asked after Fleur. Nonetheless, he confirmed she was in the building — and took Harry to find her, so he could deliver his letter in person. The French witch was sat a desk in front of a small mountain of paperwork, but her face lit up at the interruption — not, like Harry assumed, at the sight of Bill, who was _definitely_ dating her by now, from what her letter had said. But at the sight of Harry himself, who she grabbed in a hug and kissed on both cheeks, greeting exuberantly. Bill was promptly given a kiss on the lips and sent on his way, with the instruction to return with lunch, and Harry spent a delightful forty-five minutes catching up with his fellow Triwizard champion. He told her of the idea he’d had, when she commiserated on his expulsion, and the wicked smile that crossed her face made it clear why she had attracted a man like Bill Weasley. For all Mrs Weasley scolded her children for getting into trouble, not a single one of them could resist the lure of mischief. Except Percy, of course, but he’d always been the odd one out in the family. Fleur’s expression was pure mischief, and she reached across the table, squeezing Harry’s hands. “It is so good to see you again, Harry,” she declared warmly. He grinned.

“It’s good to see you too, Fleur.”

He would take all allies, no matter how unexpected their origins.

.-.-.

As promised, Bill had Harry back at Grimmauld Place a little after two o’clock. They found Sirius and Remus playing chess in the sitting room, and Bill begged his leave once he’d confirmed with the two men that Harry was back safe and sound.

“Will you be over for the Order meeting tomorrow?” Remus asked, pouring Harry a cup of tea from the pot on the table. Harry perked up; that was the first he’d heard of any meeting.

“Can’t, I’m working,” Bill replied. “I’ll get the cliff notes from Dad.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of, I’d better get going. Lunch break is almost over.” He reached out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Good to see you, kid. I’ll catch you later. And remember your promise,” he added mock-threateningly. Harry, who had promised not to tell either of Bill’s parents about his current relationship status, laughed.

“See you, Bill. Thanks for today.”

Bill left, and the two Marauders immediately turned to Harry with keen eyes. “So? How’d it go?” Sirius asked excitedly. “You don’t look like Stonehook tried to eat you alive. He must’ve liked you.”

“He’s just glad the goblins now know they can contact you through me,” Harry returned. “Apparently it’s illegal for them to contact you directly?”

“Pain in the arse,” the animagus confirmed with a grimace. “But I’ve still got my ring and my bank book, at least. I haven’t seen the accounts since before I went to Azkaban, though — I dread to think how much of the family fortune mum drank away after Reg died.”

“Your account manager will send it to me in the next few days,” Harry confirmed.

“Fab. I see you’ve got yourself a new bit of bling, there, _Heir Potter_ ,” Sirius teased, gesturing to the signet ring. Harry blushed. “By all rights you’re entitled to the Black ring too, if you want it. Probably shouldn’t while I’m still a criminal and all — might cause a bit of panic. But it’s yours if you ever want it.”

“Oh, speaking of criminals.” Harry set his tea down. “Stonehook said that while I can’t access Mum and Dad’s vaults — or their wills — until I’m of age, he basically implied that there’s proof you weren’t the Secret Keeper in there. So, y’know. If we don’t get Wormtail turned in before then. There’s hope.”

Sirius’ jaw dropped. Beside him, Remus turned to Harry, amber eyes shining hopefully. “Really?”

“He couldn’t legally tell me what’s in there. But he witnessed their will-writing,” Harry said, getting a little choked up at the pure emotion on his godfather’s face. “It might be two years away, but if we haven’t got you free by then, I’ll be in those vaults the moment I’m old enough. I’ll get that proof and demand a trial. The Ministry will have to listen, then.”

Sirius was silent. He was pressed against Remus from shoulder to knee, and Harry could see the faint trembling of the convict’s form. “If their wills hadn’t been sealed, I could’ve had a trial?” he breathed. Harry nodded.

“The Ministry wanted to confirm my guardianship, so they sealed them. Bet they knew that Mum would never let me go to Aunt Petunia. She probably had a list of potential guardians half a mile long instead of sending me to them.” It made Harry’s chest ache, how close he had come to avoiding the hell known as Privet Drive. If only there hadn’t been power plays and ulterior motives at hand. If he hadn’t been the Boy-Who-Lived — if Dumbledore and the Ministry hadn’t wanted to keep him out of the wizarding world until the time was right. His stomach churned just thinking about it.

“Just two years, Pads,” Remus murmured, hand squeezing Sirius’ knee. “Two years, and you can be a free man. If we can’t make it happen sooner.”

“I can wait two years,” Sirius choked out. “As long as I know I won’t be stuck in this bloody house forever.”

Seeing the stricken look on his godfather’s face, Harry vowed silently to do everything he could to make sure Sirius didn’t have to wait that two years. He didn’t want to take that long to get rid of Voldemort, if he could help it. And with the Dark Lord out of the way, Wormtail would be easy prey.

He would make it happen. For Sirius.

.-.-.-.

The Order meeting the next day was scheduled for after lunch — Mrs Weasley arrived at noon, fussing over Harry and immediately commandeering the kitchen, muttering about all three of them being too skinny. Remus, who was three days shy of the full moon and constantly starving, had zero objections to the Weasley matriarch cooking a small mountain of food, ready to feed whichever Order members might turn up early. Quite a lot of them did, to Harry’s surprise. Maybe they knew they’d get a free meal out of it.

It was odd, having a full kitchen but without the chaos of having the twins there. The atmosphere was more tense, the conversation quieter, many of them glancing at Harry before trailing off mid-sentence or lowering their voices even further. It made Harry roll his eyes — despite being expelled, despite having told them all he was taking an active role in the war, they were still determined to treat him like a child, keep him oblivious.

“Harry, dear, why don’t you take your plate up to your room?” Mrs Weasley suggested, watching him trying to eavesdrop on a conversation between Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle. “The Headmaster will be here soon, and he’ll want to start promptly. The less time he’s away from the school, the better, these days.”

Harry didn’t particularly want to see Dumbledore, so he didn’t argue, loading up his plate with food and getting to his feet. Struck with a shot of rebellion in the absence of the twins and the reminder of his expulsion, he swung by Sirius and Remus on his way out, ducking his head to whisper in Sirius’ ear. “Going out for a bit. Muggle London. Don’t freak out if I’m not back by the end of the meeting.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest — then stopped himself, nodding sharply. “Have fun, be safe,” he muttered, mouth barely even opening. Beside him, Remus gave Harry a searching glance and a quick flash of a smile.

“See you in a bit,” he said, as if just bidding Harry goodbye for the duration of the Order meeting.

Harry padded up to his room, wolfing down his lunch quickly and changing into a fairly nondescript outfit — one of Sirius’ old band t-shirts, his least baggy pair of jeans, and a flannel shirt that he was pretty sure had been George’s, once upon a time. He slipped his Gringotts credit card into his pocket, toed on his trainers — and after a brief thought, grabbed his old school satchel, which was charmed to hold far more than its size suggested. His invisibility cloak was inside it, and he swung it over his shoulders. Moody might see him leave, but he doubted the man would raise the alarm. He was one of the few people who didn’t treat Harry like a little kid, these days.

Sneaking out of the house was almost laughably easy. With everyone keen to start the Order meeting and waiting for Dumbledore’s arrival, no one noticed the front door open and close by itself, just wide enough for a skinny fifteen year-old boy to squeeze through. He kept the cloak on all the way to the tube station fifteen minutes down the road, ducking into a public toilet to remove it and stow it back in his bag.

Five minutes and a swipe of his credit card later, and Harry was on the Victoria Line, headed into central London. He grinned to himself, ducking his head.

For the first time in his life, he had money to spend and the freedom to spend it. It was going to be a good day.

.-.-.

To his credit, Harry didn’t go entirely overboard. He lived with the hope that he wasn’t yet done growing, so a whole new wardrobe wasn’t necessary. But the ability to buy socks and underwear that were brand new; jeans and shirts and jumpers that fit; trainers that didn’t have holes in and soft leather boots that would keep his feet warm through winter… it was almost better than magic.

No one questioned a fifteen year-old out shopping by himself, not on Oxford Street. There were plenty of schools that hadn’t gone back yet. And knowing he wasn’t likely to get another opportunity to be free of Grimmauld Place any time soon, Harry made the most of it. He didn’t limit himself to just clothes, stopping in to Boots to buy toiletries and contact lenses, and even treating himself to a small stack of fiction books at WH Smiths.

He was glad for the expansion and featherlight charms on his satchel, filling it with his purchases, relishing in the freedom of being in the muggle world. Here he wasn’t Harry Potter, wasn’t anyone remotely interesting. He was just another face in the busy London crowd; a boy taking advantage of the back-to-school sales.

He still kept his scar hidden, of course. One of his first purchases was a knit black beanie hat, which had the benefit of covering his forehead and also hiding the ridiculous birds nest that was his hair. He was almost tempted to go for a haircut, but couldn’t risk a cut that might leave his scar exposed. He’d get Ginny to do it, when she came home for Christmas. Mrs Weasley always cut it too short at the front.

He indulged in some sweets as well; things that Dudley had bragged about having that Harry had never been able to try, muggle foods that the wizarding world just didn’t have. He bought some chocolate for Remus as a thank you for not kicking up a fuss about him leaving, and a magazine about motorcycles for Sirius. He almost bought one of the upper-shelf mags with girls in bikinis on them, just for a laugh, but he couldn’t bring himself to take that to the checkout with a straight face.

Keeping an eye on the time, unsure how long the Order meeting was likely to run, Harry stayed out for as long as he dared. Eventually, he made his way home, wrapped in his brand new denim jacket with its soft fleece-lined collar. It was getting dark by the time he walked back from the station to Grimmauld, and he just knew he was going to be in trouble, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d had the _best_ day.

Sure enough, when he slipped through the front door, he was greeted by a furious redhead. “And just _where_ have you been, young man?” Mrs Weasley thundered, wincing when the drapes over Mrs Black’s portrait flew open, the woman screeching her bile to the household.

“Oh, you found him, then!” Tonks said cheerfully, head peeking out over the stair rail. “Wotcher, Harry. Nice jacket!”

“Harry, what in Merlin’s name were you thinking? Leaving the house, by yourself to boot! You could’ve been killed! Anything could’ve happened!”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, watching Sirius wrestle the curtains back over his mother’s screaming face. “In my defence, no one actually told me I wasn’t allowed to go out,” he replied, somewhat facetiously. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tonks stuff her fist in her mouth to muffle a laugh.

Mrs Weasley was not amused, hands on her hips. “Of course you’re not allowed! What if you’d been seen, what if Death Eaters had found you?”

“If Death Eaters were in John Lewis on Oxford Street, I think we’d have bigger problems,” Harry said with a shrug. “It’s not like I went to Diagon or anything. I was in the middle of muggle London.”

“Oh, like that’s any better! What if you’d gotten lost?”

“…I’d get on the bus to the nearest tube station?” Harry shook his head, bewildered by the woman’s worry. “Mrs Weasley, I was raised muggle. I know how to get around — probably better than I do anywhere magical. I just did a bit of clothes’ shopping, since I had the chance to sort my stuff out with Gringotts yesterday. Thought at fifteen years old, I deserved some pants that hadn’t been worn to death by my cousin first.” There was a bit more bite to his tone than he’d intended, but honestly he wasn’t ready for his good mood to be spoiled just yet.

“Let the lad buy his Y-fronts in peace,” Moody remarked, limping out of the kitchen. His magical eye whizzed up and down over Harry. “Beg pardon, boxer shorts.”

“Ew, Mad-Eye,” Tonks groaned, making a face.

“He’s just a boy!” Mrs Weasley whirled on the ex-auror. “Harry Potter or not, he shouldn’t be going out unsupervised. He didn’t even tell anyone where he was going, he could’ve been killed and we’d never know where to look!”

“I told you, Molly, I knew where he was,” Sirius insisted. Harry rifled through his bag for the magazine, tossing it towards his godfather. Sirius’ face lit up. “Brilliant! Thanks, pup.”

Mrs Weasley huffed, looking from adult to adult, recognising she had no allies there. “Well excuse me for being _worried_ ,” she retorted. A pang of guilt squeezed Harry’s gut.

“Mrs Weasley, I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said, looking appropriately apologetic. “Everyone was busy with Order stuff, I figured I’d nip out and be back before you were done. Then I got a bit carried away. I’ve never had muggle money before now — my aunt and uncle never let me have anything that wasn’t Dudley’s first.” Except for his very first school uniform, which had still come out of the charity shop. Everything else he’d owned had been Dudley’s, and was only given to him once the boy had grown out of it or worn through it.

Mrs Weasley’s expression faltered, not immune to Harry’s sad-orphan-face. “You can’t just leave like that, Harry. It’s dangerous out there. Especially without your wand.”

“Bah!” Moody barked, amused. “Don’t need to worry about that one, Molly. The lad’s better wandless than half the aurors I’ve trained using the wands they’ve had since first year. He can handle himself in a fight.” He wound a scarf around his neck, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Moody left, and Mrs Weasley seemed to deflate. “Well. Next time, maybe tell someone first, Harry, dear. Someone _responsible_ ,” she clarified, glaring sharply at Sirius.

Harry wisely kept his mouth shut, not offering the promise that he’d told Remus, too. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t have a death wish. “So, I’m just gonna… go put this in my room…” He trailed off, edging towards the stairs and praying he was done being scolded. As soon as he was clear of the first floor, he scarpered, hurrying the rest of the way up to his bedroom. Safe in his new refuge, he sighed, tossing his bulging satchel onto the bed.

One day, he’d be able to go to the bloody shops without an armed guard or the Spanish Inquisition.

.-.-.

For the first time in his life, Harry had a wardrobe full of clothing that he’d chosen himself, that actually fit properly. He stared at the open wardrobe, swallowing the lump in his throat. Now this room really felt like home.

With that in mind, he turned to the desk in the corner; the one part of the room he hadn’t touched other than to clean. It was the only place likely to hold anything Sirius actually cared about, and Harry had been reluctant to go through it up until now. But his godfather had made it abundantly clear that Harry was welcome to do what he liked with the contents of the room. He’d been given enough time, Harry told himself. He wouldn’t object to Harry organising the space for himself.

He needed somewhere to hide his Pick & Mix, after all.

Bracing himself for Merlin only knew what — pictures of his dad, old prank items, anything weird or scandalous that sixteen year-old Sirius might have left behind in his haste to run away — Harry tugged open the central drawer of the desk, and froze.

There was a single sheet of parchment lying on top of the drawer’s contents, covered in unfamiliar writing. Stomach churning uneasily, Harry picked it up and began to read.

_Dear Sirius,_

_I don’t know why I’m leaving this letter here. I know you’ll never be back in this house, if you have any say in it. But I can’t quite bring myself to send it to you. I doubt you’d read it if I did._

_I’m going to die, soon. I know I am. The Dark Lord won’t let me live once he finds out what I’m planning. I just hope I succeed before he reaches me. And I hope— I hope you read this one day, and know that I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry I was such a coward. I’m sorry I believed those lies our parents drilled into us. I’m sorry I let them push you out of the family. And most of all, I’m sorry I let you believe I hated you._

_Of course I never hated you. You’re my big brother. You protected me from Dad’s curses when we were kids, you healed my scraped knees and played with me when I was told I was being a nuisance, you comforted me after my nightmares. I idolised you. Even after you were sorted into Gryffindor — especially after you were sorted into Gryffindor. I knew I could never do something to separate myself from the family like that, to stand out so blatantly. I’ve been a Slytherin through and through since the day I was born, we both know that. But that doesn’t make me like them. I wish you could’ve seen that. I wish I’d let you see it._

_When you ran away, I hated you a little bit. Only because I wished I could go with you. I wished I had somewhere to go that our parents couldn’t touch me. Wished I still had my big brother to protect me. As far as you were concerned, I was dead to you along with the rest of the family. I don’t blame you, there._

_Still, what’s done is done. You did what you had to do to survive, and you thrived. You took that Gryffindor courage and you told the whole family where they could shove their pureblood beliefs. I’ve always been so very proud of you for that._

_You seem happy, now, from what little I know of your life. I heard Evans — sorry, Potter, now — is expecting. I’m sure you’ll be godfather, and I’m sure you’ll spoil that child absolutely rotten. You’ve got your Marauders, and you’re blazing a trail through the auror department. I’ve heard plenty about that, of course. You’re putting rather a damper on things for the Dark Lord._

_I wish I could speak to you one last time, but I’m not foolish enough to believe you’d listen to anything I’d have to say. Still, I can’t die without at least trying._

_I can’t die without telling someone._

_The Dark Lord has a horcrux. I’m hoping it’s just the one. I can’t imagine anyone would be so mad as to make more than one. It’s Salazar Slytherin’s locket. I know because he asked the use of a house elf to hide the locket in a secure place, and I stupidly volunteered Kreacher for the job. Poor, poor Kreacher. I know you’ve never liked him, but even you wouldn’t wish upon him what he had to go through in the Dark Lord’s care._

_I can’t follow a man who would split his soul, who would use such foul magic. Even before that, I’ve had… doubts. Being a Death Eater isn’t quite the political opportunity I was led to believe. I don’t like muggles, I don’t want them anywhere near me or mine, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend my nights torturing them._

_I don’t want to kill perfectly healthy, talented magical citizens just because they disagree with the madman I’ve foolishly thrown my lot in with. We’ll have nothing left but ashes and squibs, at this rate. Not even the squibs; the Dark Lord wants them dead, too._

_I’m the only one who knows about the horcrux. I think the Dark Lord expected Kreacher to die completing his task, but I ordered him to return to me no matter what. I brewed the antidote to the Drink of Despair, and healed Kreacher, and he told me everything._

_I can’t let such dark magic exist in the world. I can’t let the Dark Lord remain immortal. If there’s a chance — any chance — that someone might be able to best him, he cannot have his foul magic tucked away to keep him safe. I know where it is, I know how to get past its protections. I’m going to get it, and destroy it._

_That’s the plan, anyway. Kreacher has instructions if I do not return — he is to destroy the locket if I cannot. If you ever find this letter, please, speak to Kreacher. Confirm he has succeeded. Be kind to him; he is the only friend I have left, now._

_Either I will die in the attempt, or I will die when the Dark Lord finds out what I have done. But with any luck, when I die he will be mortal once more. My life is not worth much these days, but at least I can do this._

_I’m sorry, Sirius. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to tell you all this in person. I don’t know what scares me more — the chance that you won’t care, or the chance that you will, and you’ll try and talk me out of it. I have to do this. To make up for everything that monster has made me do._

_Whatever awaits me in the afterlife, I hope it will one day allow me to see you again, and to apologise for everything. To hug my big brother again._

_I love you, Sirius. Have a fantastic life._

_Sincerely,_

_Regulus_

The letter fluttered from Harry’s limp grasp, floating down to the desktop. Harry stared at it, unseeing, his heart in his mouth. The words seared into his mind.

What in the world was a horcrux?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello there, plotline. Took you a bit to show up!


	9. Chapter 9

Harry’s pulse thudded in his ears as he read the letter from Regulus Black a second time, paying close attention to his words regarding the Dark Lord’s immortality. There was some sort of magic, on Slytherin’s locket. Something that was keeping Voldemort alive. Regulus had gone to destroy it — had he succeeded?

The letter said to check with Kreacher, that the house elf knew everything. It made Harry grimace — Kreacher was so mad by now, would he even remember?

Perhaps this whole thing was what had made him mad to begin with.

Palms sweating, Harry called for the elf. “Kreacher,” he said firmly, wondering if the house elf would even respond. Harry was Sirius’ heir, he’d said so — that made him part of the family, right? Surely Kreacher had to respond? “Kreacher, come here please.”

A heartbeat, then a soft pop, and the elderly elf appeared in the centre of the room, scowling.

“Nasty half-blood calls Kreacher, thinks he’s Kreacher’s master, does he?” he muttered, as if Harry wasn’t stood right in front of him. Harry cleared his throat.

“Kreacher, I found this letter from Regulus.” The name made the elf tense, his tennis-ball eyes going impossibly wider.

“Master Regulus?” he gasped, tone reverent. “Master Regulus wrote a letter for Kreacher?”

“Well, no,” Harry said awkwardly, “it’s for Sirius. But he talks about you. He says — he says he was going to destroy a locket, that you would do it if he couldn’t.”

All of a sudden, Kreacher let out a wail like a dying animal, clutching at his grubby pillowcase. “Oh, Kreacher’s greatest shame!” he moaned. “Master Regulus’ locket, Kreacher could not! It resisted!”

“You couldn’t destroy it?” Harry asked sharply. Kreacher shook his head, twisting his ears painfully.

“Kreacher could not, Kreacher was not strong enough!” he said, tears dripping down his long nose. “The one request Master Regulus made of Kreacher, and Kreacher failed! Bad, bad Kreacher!”

Before the elf could start slamming his head against the desk, Harry made a grab for him. “Do you still have the locket? I can help you destroy it.”

“Why would nasty half-blood help Kreacher?” Kreacher sneered suspiciously.

“Because Regulus Black wanted the Dark Lord dead for what he did to you,” Harry said slowly, gesturing to the letter. “And I want him dead, too. Bring me the locket, Kreacher. Please.”

The elf stared at him for a long moment. Then, he vanished.

Harry cursed quietly, then jumped when Kreacher appeared just as abruptly as he’d gone. Now, there was an ornate locket on a chain around his neck — a locket that _reeked_ of dark magic.

More than that, it was familiar dark magic.

It felt like the same kind of magic Harry felt around his scar during his visions from Voldemort. “Put it on the desk, please, Kreacher.” He didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t know what it would do to him. Kreacher did as bid, carefully setting it next to the letter from Regulus. “What have you tried, to destroy it?”

“Kreacher burned it, and boiled it, and stabbed it with Mistress Black’s cursed dagger,” Kreacher groaned. “Kreacher tried to smash it but it was too strong. Kreacher could not even open it! Kreacher tried all the magic he could think of, but Kreacher failed Master Regulus.”

“So regular magic won’t cut it,” Harry murmured to himself. He’d expected as much. “Did Regulus tell you what a horcrux is? Did he give you any idea what might destroy it?”

Kreacher’s ears flapped as he shook his head. “Master Regulus told Kreacher it is dark, bad magic. It is the Dark Lord’s soul made solid. But Kreacher was not told how to break it.”

The words sent shivers down Harry’s spine — his soul made solid? What did that mean?

He would have to do some research.

Having the locket in his room made his head hurt and his blood turn to ice. “Kreacher, you can keep looking after the locket for now. But I promise you, I’ll find a way to destroy it. I’ll help you fulfil Regulus’ last wish.”

“Nast— young half-blood master would do that for Kreacher?” the elf asked in wonder. Harry nodded.

“I will. I don’t know how long it’ll take me, but I swear to you I’ll do it. I just need you to keep the locket safe until I’m ready. Can you do that for me?”

Kreacher nodded, eyes wide. He reached for the locket and hugged it tight against his chest. “Master let the filthy blood traitors try and throw it away, but Kreacher saved it. Kreacher saved everything he could. All the precious family items, Master didn’t care about any of it!”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want to go against Sirius’ orders, but… “I’m Sirius’ heir, so that makes me your master too, right?” Kreacher nodded. “Then I allow you to save what you can. But — can you access the Gringotts vaults?” Again, the elf nodded. “Keep the locket with you, but take everything else Sirius doesn’t want in the house to Gringotts. A lot of it is cursed, it’s not safe to have lying around. But that doesn’t mean it should just get thrown away.” Honestly, he was surprised Sirius hadn’t thought about how dangerous it was, to just chuck out dark items like that. He was blinded by his hatred for the house, for the memories it held.

“Kreacher can protect the heirlooms of the House of Black?” There was hope in his raspy voice, it made Harry’s heart clench. He pushed away that little bit of him that always identified a bit _too_ much with house elves; he hadn’t dissected it before, and now definitely wasn’t the time.

“Put them all in the vault, if they’re set to be thrown away. And— and anything else in the house that’s cursed.” Maybe one day, when Sirius was free and Harry was old enough to access the vaults, they could work on removing the curses, maybe get Bill and his team involved. Until then, they were safest with the goblins.

“Yes, Master! Kreacher can do that!” The smile on the aged elf’s face showed the few yellowing teeth he had left, his eyes bright and shiny. Harry wondered how old the elf even was, what he’d gone through in Voldemort’s hands. Whatever the Drink of Despair was, it didn’t sound pleasant.

“Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll let you know about the locket.”

Kreacher offered the first honest bow Harry had ever seen from him, then disappeared once more. The removal of the locket was palpable, the sickening stranglehold of Voldemort’s magic lifting immediately. He shuddered — he felt like he needed a shower to get the stench of it off him, and he hadn’t even touched the thing.

Harry grabbed the letter off the desk — he needed to show Sirius, before anything else.

Bursting from his room, he hurried upstairs to the master bedroom, not bothering to knock. Sirius was sprawled on the bed, reading the magazine Harry had bought him. He frowned at his godson’s abrupt entrance. “Pup, what’s the matter?”

Wordlessly, Harry thrust the letter towards him. He stood there and watched Sirius read, his face getting paler and paler with ever sentence, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed back the tears that shone in his eyes. By the time he looked back up at Harry, Sirius was devastated. “Reggie.. He…” He shook his head, mouth moving soundlessly. Harry shuffled closer, sliding an arm around his godfather’s waist, letting the man collapse against him. “That daft little idiot,” Sirius choked out, losing his battle against tears. “Going against the Dark Lord, what was he thinking? Stupid— he should’ve come to me. I would have helped him.”

“That’s what he was afraid of,” Harry said softly.

“He still should’ve come to me. I was his big brother. It was my job to— to protect him.” Sirius’ voice cracked, a sob tearing from his lips. It broke Harry’s heart to watch him, and he just held him close, letting him cry. “Merlin, my little Reggie. There were rumours— we always thought he’d died fleeing Voldemort. Got cold feet, couldn’t handle it. He was only eighteen when he died. Barely out of Hogwarts six months. Merlin…”

Harry swallowed thickly. He’d figured Regulus had to be young, to have been Sirius’ younger brother and died before Sirius went to Azkaban, when he was just barely twenty-two. But eighteen… Voldemort was despicable, grooming children so young.

His thoughts turned to the Slytherins he knew, the ones whose parents were Death Eaters, had been at the graveyard. How many of them were in the same position as Regulus Black had once been? Too terrified to go against their family, the expectation everyone had of them. Too scared to openly defy the Dark Lord when they knew they had no protection from those on the side of the Light.

Harry couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let more kids end up like Regulus. He had to kill Voldemort before they were forced into that choice.

“Sirius,” he started tentatively. “Do— do you know what a horcrux is?”

Sirius sat up, wiping at his eyes. “It sounds familiar. I can’t think where I’ve heard it before — it’s certainly not common magic. Reg clearly— Reg thought I’d know. He’d have explained, otherwise.” He ran a hand through his hair, scowling. “I _know_ I’ve heard of them. Splitting the soul, it all sounds familiar — bloody Azkaban frazzled my brain. My memory’s Swiss cheese, these days.” Harry squeezed his hand supportively. Sirius perked up. “Moony might know. All those books of his, I bet one of them has something to say about horcruxes. If not, the library’s bound to have something. Probably how Reggie learned about them in the first place.” He smiled, a haunted smile that made Harry’s chest ache. “Always was a bookworm. He practically lived in that library when we were kids. I think— I think he knew Father would leave him alone if he thought he was learning.”

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” Harry murmured, gripping his hand tighter. “About… everything.” His childhood. His brother. His family, by choice not blood; Harry’s family. Everyone gone, and twelve long years in Azkaban to relive the worst of it, surrounded by dementors. All that Sirius had gone through, and he was only thirty-five. Not even close to middle-aged by magical standards. He should still be that bright-eyed, rakish young man Harry saw in his parents’ wedding photos, in Moody’s picture of the original Order.

Sirius, Remus, Harry. All three of them should’ve had lives that were a lot different to reality.

At least they had each other, now.

Sirius coughed awkwardly. He let go of Harry’s hand, setting Regulus’ letter down on the bedspread, smoothing it out gently. “Why don’t you go find Remus, see what he knows,” he suggested, voice hoarse. “I’ll… I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Of course, yeah,” Harry agreed. If he were Sirius, he’d want to be alone for a while, too. “Take your time.”

He stumbled out of the room on uneasy legs, taking a long, shaky breath once he’d shut the door on his grieving godfather. Harry hated to be the one to make Sirius so sad, but… he couldn’t keep Regulus’ last letter from the person it was addressed to. He couldn’t let Sirius go a second longer, thinking his brother had died a loyal Death Eater. Unaware his little brother was a hero.

He turned to the stairs, wondering where Remus might be. With any luck, he would have some answers.

.-.-.

Unfortunately, Remus didn’t know what a horcrux was. “I’m sure I’ve come across the term before,” he said, fingers worrying at the hem of his cardigan. Harry had found him in the kitchen, which was now entirely empty of Order members, though not of the food Mrs Weasley had made. “I’ll have a look through my books, and do a search through the library. Have you learned that spell yet?”

When Harry shook his head, Remus — ever the teacher — went over it with him, explaining that you just had to say the spell followed by the term you wanted to look for, and if there was enough power in it, it should summon every book containing that word or phrase. It sounded incredibly useful, and Harry wondered why none of the professors at Hogwarts had told him about it.

“Most younger students don’t have the power to make it work in a library as big as Hogwarts,” Remus remarked. “Flitwick usually teaches it in fifth year, though; to help prep for OWLs.” He grimaced apologetically. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Honestly, a reminder of his expulsion was nothing compared to all the other emotions he’d experienced that day. He could hardly believe that two hours ago he’d been gallivanting around Harrods, goggling at expensive toys and gadgets that Dudley would have only dreamed of owning; things that Harry had enough gold in his vault to buy a dozen times over without even flinching.

“All this came in a letter from Regulus, you said?” Remus’ voice broke into his thoughts, thick with concern. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling.

“Yeah. It— it was a lot. It hit Sirius pretty hard.”

“I should go see how he’s doing,” Remus murmured. “He was devastated, when Regulus died. Even though he tried to convince us all he couldn’t care less about his brother, we knew how much he loved him. It was months before he was acting normal again. Only— only after you were born, to be honest.” He ran a hand over his greying hair. “Harry, would you mind sorting yourself out for dinner? Molly’s left some lasagne in the cold box, you just need to heat it up. I don’t— I don’t know if Sirius will be up for a proper meal.”

“Of course, yeah. You go be with him; he could use the company. Don’t worry about me.”

Remus stroked Harry’s hair, hand sliding down to squeeze the back of his neck, and he leaned in to brush his nose against Harry’s temple; one of the more wolfish instincts Harry had gotten used to in the last few weeks. “You’re a good lad, Harry,” he murmured. “We both love you very much, you know.”

Harry swallowed, blinking away the unexpected rush of emotion. “I know,” he assured.

Remus straightened up with a small smile, getting to his feet. “We might not see you before you go to bed. If not, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

Alone in the kitchen, Harry took a few moments to gather his thoughts, then set about investigating the lasagne Remus had talked about. It wasn’t even that late, but it had been such a long day — dinner, a bath, and an early night sounded like a good idea to him.

.-.-.

Harry hadn’t dared touch the desk again when he went up to his room, not wanting to discover any more unexpected emotional bombshells. He had a long soak in the bath opposite his room, then holed himself up in bed with one of the muggle books he’d bought for himself. It was a fantasy story that had only come out a few months ago, about a girl called Sabriel — all the posters in the shop were proclaiming it the greatest children’s fantasy book of the year, and Harry had been intrigued by the muggle portrayal of magic.

So engrossed in the story, he almost didn’t notice the mirror buzzing on his bedside table. When he realised, he snatched it up, peering into the glass as two identical faces appeared.

“You look cozy,” Fred chirped. Beside him, George’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you alright? Have you been crying?”

Harry ducked his gaze. “I— don’t worry about it. It’s just been a bit of a day.” He wasn’t quite ready to unpack all of that yet. “Never mind me — how are you guys? How’s Hogwarts? What’s the new Defence teacher like?”

The twins made identical expressions of disgust. “She’s _awful_ ,” Fred groaned.

“Some Ministry toadie—“

“And we mean that literally, she looks like a toad—“

“She won’t let us use magic in class. All we do is sit and read the theory,” George finished. Harry frowned.

“Ministry? What do you mean?”

“She works for Fudge,” George said. “Dolores Umbridge.”

“Hermione reckons the Ministry’s trying to get control of the school,” Fred added. “They got you out, now they’re trying for Dumbledore.”

“Umbridge?” The name was familiar, and it hit Harry suddenly. “She was at my trial! Short, round woman, wears a lot of pink?”

“That’s the one,” the twins confirmed.

“Your trial? Is she in the Wizengamot?” George’s face was grim.

“No, she’s— what was it.” Harry tried to remember; the trial had been such a blur. “Oh yeah! Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” he repeated. “Or something like that. Fudge’s lap dog, basically.” He scowled. “What’s Dumbledore doing letting someone like her teach?”

“Didn’t have a choice, did he?” Fred pointed out.

“People are hardly lining up for the job,” George finished.

“She won’t let you use magic? But how are you supposed to pass exams and stuff?”

“Pretty sure we’re not, mate,” Fred said. “Hermione’s livid. Ron almost got detention in his first class — apparently she was saying all this stuff about how Dumbledore’s mad and you’re delusional and it’s a good thing you got expelled.”

“She would say that, wouldn’t she,” Harry muttered derisively, remembering how pleased she’d seemed when the verdict had been announced. “Merlin, that’s awful, I’m sorry.” It was ridiculous; how were people supposed to learn to defend themselves if the Ministry was interfering with their classes like that? What sort of lengths was Fudge willing to go to, just to deny Voldemort’s return?

“How’s everything else? How are Ron and Hermione?” he asked. The twins shared a look. “What?” His heart sank. “How bad is it?”

George sighed. “It’s not great. There’s… a lot of people who think you’ve gone off the deep end, after the Triwizard and all. Story seems to be that you had some sort of mental breakdown and started cursing your cousin, and that’s why you got expelled.”

Harry should have expected it, but it still hurt. “Fuck. What a load of bollocks.” He asked a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. “How many people believe it?”

“Not everyone,” Fred assured him quickly. “Most of the Gryffindors know better. They aren’t sure exactly what happened, but they know you’re not crazy. Ron and Hermione are trying to spread the word about what actually happened, but it’s slow going. Especially with Umbridge around.”

“Most of the Gryffindors,” Harry echoed. “So the rest of the school think I’m a nutter, yeah?”

“The Ministry refuses to believe Voldemort’s back.” Harry wasn’t sure when George had started saying the name like that, without even flinching, but it made something in his stomach twist almost proudly. “They’re doing everything they can to hide the truth — including making you and Dumbledore out to be off your rockers.”

“Fantastic,” came Harry’s deadpan response. “Great. Well, maybe it’s for the best I’m not at school after all, then.” He dreaded to think how short his temper would be in the face of yet another year of the whole school whispering about him.

“No it’s not,” George responded instantly. “It’s rubbish without you here.”

He paused, then went pink, his twin snickering. Harry blushed.

“The good news is, business is booming already. Loads of people want excuses to get out of Umbridge’s classes. They’re even more boring than Binns,” Fred told him, rescuing the awkward silence that had fallen.

“We’re gonna use some of the stuff we were working on over the summer on her,” George added, smirking mischievously. “See if she has the guts to handle being a Hogwarts professor. We’ll _definitely_ be focusing on her, if she was at your trial.”

“Take pictures for me, if you get her with anything really great,” Harry requested, grinning. He smiled at the thought of what the twins might have in store for the awful woman.

“Aye aye, Captain!” the twins assured, saluting in unison.

“Oh, mate, you should’ve seen it the other day,” Fred enthused. “Hermione tried to give us _detention_.”

George cackled. “Wanted Ronniekins to back her up and everything. He wouldn’t, of course — doesn’t have the guts for that, smart boy that he is.”

“What were you doing?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows. They hadn’t even been back a full week!

“Testing products on volunteers in the common room,” Fred answered, the picture of innocence. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“…Volunteers that might’ve been ickle firsties that didn’t know any better,” George clarified sheepishly. “But it was nothing we hadn’t already tested on ourselves, and Lee! And we told them what they’d be eating before they ate it. We just needed a wider variety of test subjects!”

Harry snorted. “No wonder Hermione was pissed. But surely she knows you wouldn’t _actually_ hurt first years?” The twins were pranksters, but they weren’t malicious. They wouldn’t give kids anything that had a chance of actually being dangerous.

“You’d think!” George agreed.

“But no, Little Miss Prefect’s got no faith in us.” Fred shook his head sadly. “Hurts, it does — she’s known us so long, and she still thinks the worst!”

There was humour in his tone, but Harry knew better — Hermione’s assumptions probably _had_ hurt the twins. Their pranks had never been cruel.

“She just doesn’t want to let McGonagall down, you know what she’s like,” he sighed. “I’m sure she’ll chill out eventually. Or just give up. It’s not like there’s actually anything in the school rules about experimenting on first years.”

“If only we had your voice of reason here, Harrikins,” George said. “The firsties jumped at the chance to prove they’d sorted Gryffindor for a reason. Especially when we offered them free stuff in exchange for testing.”

“Nice advertising, there,” Harry complimented, and George winked.

“Why, thank you. We do try.” His smile faltered, brown eyes growing concerned. “You sure you’re alright?”

For a moment, Harry thought about telling them about the letter from Regulus Black. But it wasn’t really his story to tell — it was Sirius’ private business.

“I am now,” he said honestly, surprised how true that was — even if the news from the twins wasn’t entirely positive, it had cheered him up just to talk to them, to see their faces. He glanced across the room at his open wardrobe, and the flannel shirt draped across the back of the desk chair. “Oh, Merlin, I really pissed off your mum today. I thought she was gonna ground me or something, I swear.”

Their faces lit up. “Oh? Tell us more,” Fred urged. “Should we expect a howler for corrupting you?”

Laughing, Harry regaled the twins with the tale of his excursion into muggle London, and Mrs Weasley’s fury upon his return.

“You little sass monster, you!” George crowed when Harry recounted his response about Death Eaters in John Lewis. “What happened to shy, quiet ickle Harrikins?”

“He spent too much time around a pair of redheaded menaces,” Harry retorted, smirking.

“Oh? Handsome menaces, I bet,” George drawled.

“Clever, too,” Fred chimed in.

“They’re alright, I guess,” Harry said, shrugging, chuckling at their offended looks. “So anyway, I told her where I’d been, and she starts going off on one about how no one knew where I was and I could’ve been killed or kidnapped or whatever. You should’ve seen her face when Sirius said I’d told him where I was going before I’d left. I felt a bit bad, actually; she’s only trying to look out for me.”

“No, don’t let the guilt in! That’s how she gets you!” Fred warned. “She’ll give you the sad, disappointed face, and before you know it you’re following the rules!”

“Me, following rules? I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry teased. The twins laughed.

“Sounds like you had fun, though,” George said.

“We’ve never been to muggle London, not properly.” Fred’s voice was full of envy. “You’ll have to take us one day, show us around.”

“I’m not sure London would survive,” Harry replied wryly. The thought of trying to herd the twins through Oxford Street… he’d need help, for sure. Only, he couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t make the chaos worse. Even Fleur would probably just sit back and laugh.

He was hanging out with far too many pranksters, these days.

“I’m glad you’ve got decent clothes now, though. Not your cousin’s old rags.” George smiled softly. “You deserve it.”

There was a long pause, Harry and George just smiling at each other through the mirror. Fred coughed. “Hang on, Harry, I think Lee’s calling me for something. I’ll catch you later, yeah?” He waved, then disappeared. When they heard the door shut, Harry snorted.

“Subtle,” he commented, making George laugh.

“That’s my brother,” he agreed, voice fond. He bit his lip, then sighed. “It’s really weird without you here, y’know.”

“It’s weird not being there.” Harry couldn’t deny that. “But it’s not bad, being here. I’m starting to learn some good stuff, and I swear I’ve learned more about being a wizard in the last week than I had in the whole four years before it. No one tells me shit.”

“We all forget you were raised muggle,” George said apologetically.

“I didn’t mean you guys. I mostly meant Dumbledore.”

“Ah, then I won’t argue there.” George ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him, sprawled on his bed like that, made Harry’s heart hurt. “You’re doing okay, then? I don’t need to send Bill round there to come cheer you up?”

“Reinforcements not necessary, promise,” Harry insisted, chuckling quietly. He broke off with a yawn, jaw cracking.

“Blimey. I should let you go to bed.” George smiled when Harry pouted.

“I can stay up a bit longer.”

“Don’t tempt me,” George sighed. Harry bit his lip to keep his own thoughts in his head. “We’ll call again at the weekend. Let you know how the war against Umbridge is going.”

“Be careful around her,” Harry warned. “She’s got Fudge’s ear. That makes her dangerous.”

“No one who wears that much pink can be _that_ dangerous,” George shot back. “We can handle her. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Potter.” He gave his roguish smile. “We’ll make her regret messing with Harry Potter. By Christmas, she’ll be begging you to come back to school just to make us stop.”

Harry laughed; if only that were possible. Christmas felt like ages away, now. “Just don’t get caught, then.”

“Us? Never,” the redhead promised. “Go on, go to sleep. You’ve got to duel Mad-Eye in the morning.”

Harry made a face at the reminder. “I s’pose.” He slumped further back against his pillows, already feeling his eyes get drowsy. He forced them open, just in time to see a heartbreakingly fond expression on George’s face, just for a second, before he covered it up with a grin. “Goodnight, George.”

“Night, Harry.”

A heartbeat, then the mirror went fuzzy, before showing Harry nothing but his own reflection.

God, he looked like a lovesick little sop. It was a miracle no one but Sirius and Remus — and Fred, of course — had noticed, over the summer. He supposed everyone else was too used to seeing the twins as one singular entity to think Harry might feel otherwise.

He set the mirror on the bedside table, settling down and turning out his light. He’d run the emotional gauntlet, today, with everything that had happened. But at least he was ending on a good note.


	10. Chapter 10

With the entire Black family library at their fingertips, and Remus’ spell to search the library… the three of them still only found one book that had mention of the word horcrux.

“ _Magyk Moste Evile_ , blimey, bit on the nose,” Sirius muttered with a grimace, waving his wand over the tome to scan it for any nasty surprises. It looked old, the black leather binding cracked and peeling in places. Only once Sirius deemed it safe did Harry reach to open it, flicking to the page that Remus’ spell had made glow. He skimmed it, his stomach curdling.

“God. This is… Moste Evile is definitely the right phrase for it.” He passed it to Remus, so the two adults could read.

Horcruxes were a container for a piece of a person’s _literal soul_ , separated off by killing in cold blood. When Kreacher said it was Voldemort’s soul made solid, when Regulus talked about the Dark Lord splitting his soul, they were being completely serious.

The locket held a fragment of soul, and that’s why it felt so dark, so twisted.

But… what did that mean about Harry’s scar, when it felt the same way?

Sirius cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. Reggie, what did you get yourself into?”

“He might’ve just won us the war,” Harry pointed out, meeting his godfather’s gaze. “Dumbledore told me Voldemort had found ways of making himself immortal. This is it. All I have to do now is figure out how to destroy it. And… and find out if he’s got any more.”

“You think he made more than one of these things?” Remus asked, horrified.

Harry bit his lip. Saying it out loud made it real, but he couldn’t hide it from these two. He told them about the magic of the locket, and how familiar it was. “It’s not only my scar,” he added hastily, watching both Marauders go chalk-white. “If these things are bits of his soul, if their purpose is for resurrection in the event of death… I think that diary Ginny had in my second year was one.” It all added up; the shade of Tom Riddle had been draining her life force, taking it for his own. It was more than just an imprint or a complicated spell woven in those pages; it was a living entity of a sort, creeping into Ginny’s mind and slowly taking over.

“This ritual, this magic… I can’t imagine doing it once, let alone multiple times.” Remus’ voice was raspy. The book went into detail on exactly how to create a horcrux, with recommendations on object choice and ways to keep them safe. Naturally, there was nothing in there about destroying or undoing horcruxes. That would’ve been far too easy.

“No wonder he’s so insane,” Sirius agreed. “He’s torn himself apart.” He reached out, swiping his thumb over Harry’s scar. “How can there be part of him inside you? That shouldn’t be possible.”

“First off, please never word it like that again, or I will have nightmares forever,” Harry requested primly. “Second I have no idea, but it makes sense. The visions I have, the way I can feel what he’s feeling sometimes… this connection between us isn’t like any magic anyone’s heard of before. He probably did the preparation ritual before he came to kill me; even when the magic rebounded on him, the piece of his soul was already loose.” Harry bit his lip. “Maybe, because of that, it’s not a proper horcrux. Maybe it’s not connected properly, or something. If it was, he’d be in my head, right? Properly, I mean.” He’d be like the diary Tom Riddle was, leeching Harry’s life away, tricking him into offering it up.

“Or maybe it’s just an echo, and not even a real horcrux,” Remus suggested. He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself and Sirius more than anything else. “There’s nothing in the book about what happens if you’re killed while creating a horcrux. And no one’s ever seen the killing curse rebound before. We still have no idea what really happened that night.”

The trio were silent, lost in grim thoughts of the worst night of their lives.

“Dumbledore knows.” Sirius’ voice startled Harry, and he eyed him quizzically. “Before the dementor attack, I’d asked Dumbledore about bringing you here. You always told me you were out of Privet Drive around your birthday, if not sooner. He… he wouldn’t have brought you here if you hadn’t been attacked. He said it wasn’t safe, that there might be magic connected to you that would weaken the protections on this place.”

Harry felt sick at the prospect of a full summer with the Dursleys, being denied information by his friends. He would’ve gone insane. Then he remembered his discussion with Dumbledore after his hearing, about his dreams and his headaches, and the way the man hadn’t looked him in the eye when he told Harry he didn’t know what caused them.

Hadn’t looked him in the eye at all, in fact. Not since after the Triwizard task.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed grimly. “He’s been avoiding me, and not just because he feels guilty about what happened at my trial.”

Rage bubbled in his gut when he thought of how the headmaster had told him he only had suspicions on Voldemort’s methods of immortality. “He’s probably known about horcruxes since the diary. And about my scar since I first told him about the dreams.” His blood was ice in his veins. How much more information was the man going to keep from Harry _for his own good_?

“So we don’t tell him we know, then,” Remus surmised. Harry looked at him in shock. “Cub, the man has his own agenda, that much has always been clear. You said to us you told him you weren’t going to play by his rules anymore. We’re with you on that.”

“Moony’s right,” Sirius agreed. “I don’t know what would be worse — that Dumbledore knows how to destroy horcruxes and he’s keeping it to himself, or that he doesn’t know and he isn’t allowing anyone to help him figure it out. Sure, you have to be wary of information getting out — if Voldemort ever finds out someone’s on to him, all hell will break loose — but that man’s always believed he was the smartest person in any room. He’s keeping the Order busy protecting this bloody prophecy; we might as well put our time to better use and figure out how to kill an immortal Dark Lord.”

It felt wrong, to be keeping important information from the Order. But Sirius was right; they couldn’t afford for Voldemort to find out what they knew.

“Well, then. We know what they are — how do we find out how to destroy them? And find any others?” The last thing Harry wanted was for everyone to believe Voldemort was dead once more, only for the man to rise a third time. When he killed him, he wanted it to be permanent. “None of the other books in here talk about horcruxes.” If they had, Regulus would have known how to destroy the locket. He would have given Kreacher specific instructions.

“Not by name, no,” Remus said. “They might go by another term. That’s the problem with the searching spell — it works by word, not by concept. There could be dozens of books in here that talk about soul magic, or blood magic, or how to destroy cursed items. We just have to find them.”

Harry turned, looking at the tall shelves stacked to bursting with books.

That was going to take a while.

.-.-.

As promised, the twins called Harry on the mirror that Sunday evening. Immediately, they both glared at him. “You gave your racing broom to our little sister!” they exclaimed together. Harry grinned.

“You’ve had tryouts then? How did she do?”

“She made the team, of course,” George assured him, rolling his eyes. “Ron, too — he’s our new keeper. I’m sure they’ll both write you about it. But why didn’t you say anything! I thought Angelina was gonna cry when Ginny turned up with your Firebolt.”

“I didn’t want it sitting around gathering dust,” Harry reasoned, shrugging. “She came to ask me if I would mind if she tried out for seeker with me gone, so I told her to take it. Were there many others trying out? How tight was the competition?”

“Honestly, mate, she could’ve been riding a school broom and she’d have blown them all away,” Fred declared, clearly impressed. “I didn’t know she had it in her!”

“She’s not as good as you, of course,” George added, “but she’s a damn fine flier.”

Harry’s chest puffed out in pride. At least he hadn’t let Gryffindor down entirely. “And Ron’s tryout?”

Here, the twins shared an uneasy look. “…It was close. Cormac McLaggen performed better, to be honest. But quite frankly, he’s a git, and Angie can’t stand him,” Fred relayed.

“Ron’s got potential, though. He just gets so bloody nervous and ends up going arse over tit.” George rolled his eyes. “We’ll sort him out before the first game.”

Harry hoped Ron wrote to him soon, so he could reassure his friend about his quidditch prowess. Truthfully, he had worried about that — Ron was no Oliver Wood. But he was good on a broom, and solid enough as a keeper. Privately, Harry had hoped him not being on the team might encourage Ron to grab the opportunity to shine away from Harry’s shadow. He supposed that wasn’t likely to happen with both his brothers — and now his little sister — on the team as well.

“I’m glad they both made it,” he said eventually. “And I’m glad my Firebolt will be put to good use.” He felt a pang in his chest at the thought of it. Merlin, he missed flying.

“Oh, your Firebolt is doing plenty,” George replied, a strange look on his face. Fred snorted.

“Get that thorn out of your arse, Gred,” he teased, nudging his twin in the ribs. He turned to Harry, winking conspiratorially. “Word got around about Ginny bringing your broom to school. Everyone seems to think you two are some kind of star-crossed lovers situation, separated by your expulsion on account of being a headcase and all.”

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. “Sorry, what?”

“The rumour is you’re dating our sister.” There was a definite bite to George’s tone, his expression unimpressed. “They think you gave her the broom as a symbol of your love, or whatever.”

“…That’s ridiculous. She’s my friend. She’s your _sister_!” Harry yelped. Fred slung an arm around George’s shoulders.

“And they clearly haven’t been paying attention to the right Weasley,” he teased. “If it helps, it’s redeemed you a bit — people like Ginny, they don’t think she’d date you if you were an evil muggle-hating lunatic. She’s doing wonders for your reputation.”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of boost to his reputation, and he said as much. Fred laughed. “You should’ve thought about that before you gave her a world-class racing broom,” he pointed out. “You’ll get some lip from Ron about that, by the way.”

“Is he mad I didn’t give it to him?” Harry asked warily.

“Nah, he’s in love with his new Cleansweep,” George assured. “That’s his for keeps, he knows Gin has to give the Firebolt back. No, he’s mad his best mate’s been sneaking around with his little sister and not told him.”

“No.” Harry shook his head, wide-eyed and incredulous. “He believes that? _Seriously_?”

He knew that no one else seemed to have noticed the way he’d behaved around George all summer — since the Quidditch World Cup the summer before, if he was entirely honest — but how the hell could Ron think Harry fancied Ginny?

“You know what he’s like,” George said.

“Daft and blind?” Fred offered, grinning. He was clearly very amused by the whole affair. “Hermione’s trying to set him straight, don’t you worry. I feel a bit sorry for her, to be honest — I knew Ron was an idiot about what feelings looked like, but really, missing so many obvious signs in front of your face on two different levels has got to be some sort of medical problem.”

“No progress on their front, then?” Harry hadn’t expected it, really. School had only been in session a couple of weeks.

“Not a sausage,” Fred sighed. “It’s still weird, seeing them in the common room without you. They’re so boring, now. Maybe you should’ve given them the Map, might’ve livened them up a touch.”

Harry had thought about letting Ron have the Marauders’ Map, but he couldn’t bear to part with it. It couldn’t be replaced as easily as a Firebolt. He only barely trusted the twins with it, knowing they’d respect it, but they had told him to keep it. If they needed a lookout, they’d just call him, George insisted.

“Give them a break, it’s early days. Even I wasn’t usually in trouble this early in the year,” Harry pointed out. “Speaking of trouble, how’s things with Umbridge?” Both twins flinched ever so slightly, and dropped their right hands out of view. Harry narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

It took some needling, but eventually the twins cracked, revealing what had happened in the detention Umbridge had set them for casting spells in the corridors. Harry stared at the reddened flesh on the back of George’s hand, the words ‘ _I must not cause trouble’_ only slightly visible thanks to a healing potion Fred had brewed, and fury roared in his skull.

“That can’t be legal,” he spat. George tucked his hand away, shrugging.

“She’s Fudge’s right hand, remember?” he pointed out. “She clearly doesn’t give a damn about legal.”

“What are you gonna do to her?” Harry didn’t need to ask if they’d tell McGonagall, or Dumbledore. If Umbridge was trying to cause trouble for Hogwarts, that would only make things worse. No, the twins were far sneakier than that. Almost Slytherin, at times.

“We’ve got a few ideas,” Fred told him, smirking. “She might be a raging bitch, but she’s a rather sensitive one. Doesn’t like things being in chaos and _disorder_.”

Chaos and disorder were Fred and George’s middle names. The Marauder in Harry danced with glee, but the protective side of him rose up. “Be careful. You don’t want more detentions, not with that quill.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” George said, “we promised you we wouldn’t get caught. Just let us have our fun, yeah?” He winked, and Harry couldn’t have said no if he’d tried.

“It’s Ron you should worry about,” Fred admitted, brows drawing together worriedly. “Idiot keeps mouthing off in your defense every time Umbridge calls you a lying madman. It’s very sweet, but he’s gonna get in serious trouble at this rate. He’s got detention scheduled for Tuesday night, hopefully that’ll put him off.”

Harry’s stomach churned at the thought of Ron writing lines with the cursed quill. This was why he hated not being at Hogwarts. “Tell him I’m not worth it,” he insisted.

“Tell him yourself,” was George’s retort. “He never listens to us.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry hoped his friends wrote soon. They didn’t know the twins had the mirror, and he wanted to keep it that way — he couldn’t mention any of this to Ron and Hermione until they brought it up themselves. If they brought it up themselves.

His mood soured, Harry didn’t stay on the call with the twins much longer, letting them disappear off to plan some pranks for Umbridge with Lee. He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Hogwarts felt like a whole other life away, these days. It had only been two weeks, but the separation was already cavernous.

It was going to be a long wait until Christmas.

.-.-.

Luckily, letters from Ron, Hermione and Ginny arrived in the middle of that coming week, all in one bundle dropped off by a large school owl. Hermione’s was a thick envelope, and Harry rolled his eyes as he opened two weeks worth of study notes for all the subjects he took — she’d even duplicated Ron’s Divination notes, as pathetic as they were in comparison to her usual standard. He tossed them aside, doubting there was going to be anything of use to him in a fifth year curriculum these days.

Ginny’s letter was mostly a detailed recounting of quidditch tryouts, followed by a very amused explanation of the current Hogwarts rumour mill. Ginny assured him she was discouraging the whispers about their secret love — admitting it was actually very inconvenient, because she had her eye on some Ravenclaw bloke in Harry’s year who was never going to go out with her if he thought she was Harry Potter’s girlfriend. That made Harry smile — as did the added parchment inside, which contained a letter from the three chasers on the team, telling him how much they missed him, and how glad they were that he’d properly equipped his replacement. He read the missive wistfully; when he’d thought about never going back to Hogwarts immediately after his expulsion, he’d been so preoccupied with missing the people who would be leaving him behind at Grimmauld, he hadn’t even thought about all the other people he would miss at school. He hadn’t realised how many people he was actually friends with, until he was separated from them; the quidditch team, and his dorm-mates — he even missed the Creevey brothers, to an extent.

People he wouldn’t necessarily think to write to, and who probably wouldn’t write to him, but who had been regular fixtures in his day for the last four years.

Hermione’s letter was full of fretting and fussing about how he was coping, interspersed with exclamations about how intense OWL year was already. There was only one sentence about Umbridge; a throwaway comment about her being the least capable DADA teacher so far. He scowled to himself — even his best friends wanted to keep him in the dark.

He knew he’d made the right choice in giving the mirror to the twins.

If you discounted Hermione’s addition of revision notes, Ron’s letter was the longest, which surprised him. The redhead passed on well-wishes from the other boys in their dorm — though not Seamus, who apparently believed the Prophet, and was at odds with the rest of them because of it — and complained about the teachers putting the pressure on already. He gushed about making keeper, and dropped several heavy-handed questions about Harry and Ginny. Subtlety was not one of Ron Weasley’s talents.

There was a short paragraph about Umbridge, complaining about how she was a Ministry lackey and she was refusing to hear a word about Voldemort being back, trying to make Harry and Dumbledore look bad. But there were several scratched-out spots where Ron had begun a sentence and apparently changed his mind. No mention of all the points the twins said he’d lost for speaking out, or the detention he had served.

Harry wondered if Ron had been pressured by Hermione into keeping the information from Harry, or come to the decision all by himself. He tossed the letter across the table, scowling.

“Bad news?” Remus asked lightly. Harry’s scowl deepened.

“Ron and Hermione pretending everything’s fine,” he muttered. “If I wasn’t talking to the twins, I might actually have believed them.”

“Have you ever considered they just don’t want you to worry about something you can’t control?” Remus pointed out. “I hate to say it, cub, but you don’t exactly have the best track record with sitting back and letting other people deal with problems.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but his cheeks flushed when he couldn’t think of anything the werewolf wouldn’t immediately shoot down.

“That’s usually because no one else is bothering with the problems,” he groused instead, stabbing at the yolk of his poached egg and watching it ooze over his plate.

“Doesn’t make it your responsibility,” Sirius reasoned. “They’re trying to keep positive, kid, leave them be. This whole situation can’t be easy on them; they’ve lost their best mate.” He reached across, absently picking up one of the many pages of Hermione’s Transfiguration notes. “Blimey, she’s thorough, isn’t she? Even you weren’t this bad, Moons.”

Remus rolled his eyes at the light teasing. “She’s dedicated,” he corrected. “If… overenthusiastic.” His gaze softened. “Allow them the comfort of thinking they’re protecting you, Harry. Ease their guilt over being at school when you can’t be.”

A sigh escaped Harry’s lips, and he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I know. It just… it feels too much like the beginning of summer.” Back when he was desperate for news, _any_ news, and all his friends sent him were empty platitudes about keeping his chin up.

“Seems to me you’re both keeping things from each other,” Remus said. “And I don’t just mean the mirror you gave Fred and George.”

It was true. Harry had alluded to working with Moody and Tonks in his last letter, but he hadn’t given any specifics. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to say _anything_ about horcruxes.

“I can’t put stuff that sensitive in a letter,” he excused feebly. Remus raised one eyebrow pointedly. “…I’m just keeping them safe.”

“Pot, meet Kettle,” Remus said dryly. Harry shot him a glare, and turned back to his breakfast.

It wasn’t like that. Ron and Hermione didn’t need to know what he was up to — they could still avoid the worst of the war, even if they were his friends. But them not telling him about what was going on at school, something he would have been involved in had he not been expelled… it felt like he was losing them.

He pushed the thought away firmly. He was being ridiculous. They were fine. Remus was right.

So why did it still hurt?


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the dark shadow of his knowledge of horcruxes hanging over his head, Harry settled into a routine at Grimmauld Place — Moody was usually the one to come over and train with him, being retired from the auror force, but Harry still had regular visits from both Tonks and Kingsley when they could spare the time. He was progressing in leaps and bounds, working to use his wandless magic as easy as breathing, learning all manner of spells and tactics from the three aurors. It was the kind of training he’d always imagined Dumbledore would give him, once it became clear Harry was going to be facing Voldemort no matter how many people wanted to keep him safe.

Dumbledore was still avoiding him, making sure Harry wasn’t allowed near the Order meetings, and not staying any longer than he had to. Harry wondered if he was asking the aurors about their training sessions — wondered what the trio were telling the headmaster. Knowing Moody, he was telling Dumbledore where to shove his questions.

When he wasn’t working with the aurors, Harry was still keeping busy — he and Remus were systematically devouring the Black library for anything that might be of use. They hadn’t found much on soul magic yet, and nothing on horcruxes, but Harry had found plenty of interesting spells and theories he put aside to devote more time to. Not all of it was bloodthirsty Dark Arts, in that library.

Still, he didn’t mention anything to Hermione about the types of books he was reading. They _definitely_ wouldn’t be on the Hogwarts library approved list, and she would throw a fit. Or demand he send them to her.

Worryingly, Hedwig had returned from Hogwarts with his latest letters from his friends somewhat rough around the edges, her feathers rumpled and an annoyed slant to her eyes. She looked almost like she’d been grabbed. But the letters were sealed and unspoiled, so Harry put the matter from his mind.

His days were getting fuller, and he couldn’t be happier about it. Mrs Weasley still stopped by regularly, usually with food, but Harry was starting to get used to her fussing. They had somewhat of a truce going on; he didn’t try and get into Order meetings, and she pretended not to hear anything about the magic he was learning. She also didn’t ask whether or not he’d been out to muggle London again, or anywhere else.

Not that Harry was getting out, much. He didn’t really have anywhere to go — he didn’t want to show his face anywhere magical, and the idea of going out into the muggle world had lost its shine once he realised he had no one to share the experiences with. Sirius was still confined to Grimmauld Place, and Harry felt bad about leaving him behind. Instead, he had a mental list of activities he could do with his godfather when the man was free. And another list, of muggle things to introduce the twins to one day, when he was feeling particularly in need of chaos. He was keen to see how they’d react to a cinema.

So he duelled with aurors, and he read books on obscure and dubiously-legal magic, and he and Sirius systematically gutted Grimmauld Place of all its faded wallpaper and weird pureblood decor. With the promise of destroying Regulus’ locket, Kreacher was practically a brand new elf, and was actually happy to serve most of the time. He and Sirius still didn’t get along, but they didn’t outright insult each other anymore, and Kreacher had no qualms about letting them move furniture or pull up carpets or repaint walls. Harry supposed now he’d reassured the elf that he wasn’t going to throw away anything important, just put it in the vaults, it was easier for Kreacher to accept the changes.

And so, time moved on. Harry learned to be more open with his wandless magic, now that he didn’t have to hide it anymore. The Prophet seemed to have grown bored of mocking him now he was all but absent from the wizarding world, instead preferring to drag Dumbledore’s name through the mud. That was fine by Harry; if Dumbledore cared, he could do something about it himself.

Currently it was a Friday afternoon, which was Tonks’ usual day off work — which meant she was at Grimmauld, putting Harry through his paces in hand-to-hand combat.

“You can’t always rely on your wand,” she told him, then faltered. “I mean, y’know. Your magic. You’ve definitely got the advantage, with your wandless magic, but you never know what you might come up against. Besides,” she added, grinning viciously, “most magical-raised people, especially purebloods, are useless in a physical fight. They never know what to do when someone straight up clocks them in the face.”

Harry got a vivid flashback to Hermione punching Malfoy in their third year, and laughed. “Good enough reason for me,” he chirped, raising his fists to protect his face.

“Watch your thumbs, you’ll break them like that,” Tonks corrected, reaching to adjust his hands. Harry, who was far more used to dodging and running than ever fighting back, listened attentively.

He hadn’t expected Tonks, with her jovial nature and general clumsiness, to be as good at muggle-style fighting as she was. When he said as much, she beamed. “My granddad — on my dad’s side, obviously — was in the army. He taught Dad how to throw a proper punch, and put him in boxing classes when he was a teenager. Didn’t want him relying on his magic too much, said it made him lazy. Dad didn’t really want me learning to fight, but, ah, when I started getting in fights regardless, he told mum it was best if I at least knew how to do things properly,” she said with a sheepish grin. Harry had yet to meet Andromeda Tonks, but he’d heard plenty about her from Tonks and Sirius both, and he couldn’t imagine her being happy about her daughter brawling like a muggle.

“She was just glad I had somewhere to put all my energy,” Tonks said, ducking the punch Harry threw her way, aiming a kick at his thigh. “Dad and I managed to win her over when we made it about training my metamorphmagus abilities, too — learning to fight in different shapes and sizes. Of course, I was always a bit clumsy in a body that wasn’t shaped like the one I was used to.”

“What’s your excuse now?” Harry asked before he could help himself. Tonks whacked him hard in the ribs.

“The cheek of it!” she scolded, grinning. “Who says this body is even the right shape?” Before his eyes, she shrank several inches, becoming thin and waif-like. She dodged his next blow, then transformed again — into the spitting image of Harry himself. Harry stopped, gobsmacked.

“I didn’t know you could change things that much!” He stared — was that really what he looked like? He was actually tall enough to look fifteen, now!

“Oh, yeah,” Tonks confirmed, returning to the shape Harry was familiar seeing. “It takes concentration to hold it, but that’s old hat by now. I can do just about anything with my body if I try hard enough.”

Someone with a dirtier mind than Harry might have made an innuendo out of that. The fact that he even considered it proved he’d been spending too much time with Sirius. “I bet that was hell through school. Trying to figure out what you actually wanted to look like. It’s hard enough when you’re stuck with the body you’ve got.” He’d listened to Lavender and Parvati moan about their noses and their hair and their skin; watched girls be bullied for having too small boobs or too big boobs or a little extra around the midsection. Even the boys weren’t immune to it, especially as they reached the age when they started to care about the opinions of others. He’d heard the whispers in his third year about the seventh year Hufflepuff boy who had practically starved himself to death after being teased for being chubby. Just hearing the boy’s name had made Neville look queasy for weeks.

Tonks stilled, eyeing him with a considering expression, something almost like approval in her eyes. “Most people tell me how great it must’ve been being able to look however I wanted,” she remarked. “How easy it must have been to get a date.”

“I get the feeling you weren’t the type to give a shit about impressing dates, even then,” Harry pointed out, making her laugh.

“True enough. No one bothered with me, anyway — they all thought Charlie and I were dating. As if he’d ever be interested in anything other than dragons.” She rolled her eyes. “Even Molly started prepping for me to be her daughter-in-law, by seventh year. Confused the hell out of her when Charlie said he was going to Romania but I was staying here to go into auror training. She still doesn’t quite know what to make of me.” Tonks shrugged, pushing her currently electric purple hair out of her face. “You’re an odd duck, Harry Potter.”

“Thank you?” Harry didn’t know if that was a compliment. He chose to take it as one regardless. “Your powers are really cool, though. It’s a shame it’s a genetic thing; I’d love to learn.”

“Bet you’d give an arm to look like anyone other than yourself for a bit, hmm?” she said knowingly.

“If only,” Harry sighed. He pushed the thought away; no point in wanting things he couldn’t have. “Hang on, if it takes concentration to change, do you, like— revert back to what you look like naturally, or whatever, when you’re asleep?” Harry didn’t think it was polite to ask Tonks how much of her appearance she changed on a day-to-day basis, other than her hair obviously. For all he knew, she looked entirely different when she was untransformed. He doubted it, though — that had to be exhausting, and he didn’t see Tonks being that focused on her looks.

“It takes concentration to change, not to hold it — it doesn’t revert if I’m asleep, but it will if I’m magically exhausted,” she confirmed. “And sometimes if I’m sick or in a whole load of pain, or unconscious. It’s why Kingsley didn’t let me get out of Stealth and Tracking with an easy pass on my powers. He made sure I could keep my cover no matter what.” She shrugged. “Also half the time I just can’t be bothered.” She caught Harry’s eye, smiling knowingly. “I’m not offended if you’re curious. This is my natural body, other than the hair. Oh, and my eyes.” There was a beat, and her hair became jet black and slightly wavy, while her eyes faded from bright blue to stormy grey.

“Merlin, you look so much like Sirius,” Harry blurted. She burst out laughing.

“That’s what Mum always said!” She grinned, turning back to her purple-haired self. “I did go through phases, trying to figure out what felt most like me. I was a boy the whole summer after sixth year.” That made Harry raise an eyebrow. “It was nice, but not something I’d do permanently. Just every now and then. When I want to piss standing up and all that.”

Harry choked. “That was more information than I needed, thanks.”

Tonks laughed again. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” she asked sweetly, then cackled. “It was as much for Charlie’s benefit as mine. I was trying to figure out what the difference was, and he thought he might fancy me if I was a bloke. Didn’t work out like that. We did both learn a lot, though.”

There was an expression on her face that made Harry desperate to return to their fighting lesson, before he was treated to way more detail than he ever wanted about the intimate leanings of either Tonks or Charlie Weasley. He must have looked fearful of that, because Tonks snickered, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry, I won’t traumatise you.” Then she winked, looking entirely too like Harry’s godfather even without the hair and eyes. “Offer’s always open if you want information, though. How to handle girls and guys from someone who’s experienced it all both ways,” she leered.

Most of Harry’s blood had to be in his face by now. “I— I’m good, thanks,” he spluttered.

“Oh, already got that info? Do tell,” Tonks drawled playfully, smirking at the croaking yelp Harry let out in response.

“No! I mean— I just—“

Tonks’ laughter rang through the ballroom. “I’m just messing with you, mate,” she assured. “Your business is your business, I’m not a nosy sod like my cousin. Guess I just feel like your options for learning have been cut a bit short, is all, now you’re not at school. Fifth year always seemed to be the time everyone turned into horny little maniacs.”

“Ninety-nine percent of the school would go straight to the Prophet if I so much as looked at them like that,” Harry pointed out. He resolutely did not mention that he didn’t want any more _options_ for learning, thanks; he’d narrowed that one down for himself.

“Ah, fair play.” That made Tonks look sad. “There’s bound to be someone brilliant in the one percent who wouldn’t, though. Charming bloke like you. Shame you’re a bit young for my tastes.” Her tone was teasing, and Harry didn’t let himself be embarrassed.

“Shame you’re a bit female for mine,” he retorted slyly. Her eyes widened for just a moment, and then her lips curled.

“I don’t have to be.” Suddenly her voice was several octaves lower, her jaw more square and her shoulders broadening as she took on a distinctly masculine form. Harry would have been fascinated by the ease of the transformation — if he wasn’t too busy being horrified.

“You look _way_ too much like my godfather, thanks; I’m going to have nightmares for ages now.”

Tonks dropped the come-hither eyes she’d been hitting him with, laughing so hard she doubled over. “Oh, Merlin, I’m telling him you said that!” she crowed. “He thinks he’s so handsome, he’ll be devastated.”

“Devastated that I don’t fancy him?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. “Should I be concerned?”

“Don’t start, you know what I meant.” Tonks rolled her eyes. “That’s a bit of a relief, though — you lean the same way he does, he can help you with all that stuff. I had the horrifying mental image of him trying to talk to you about girls — or worse, him getting Arthur and Molly to do it.”

Now _that_ was truly nightmare-worthy, and he said as much. This time, Tonks agreed, shuddering theatrically. “Charlie told me about the talks his parents tried to have with him growing up,” she said conspiratorially. “He made Bill promise to do it for Percy and the rest, just so they wouldn’t suffer the same.”

“He wants Bill to talk to Ginny about sex?” Harry checked doubtfully, making a face.

“Oh, Merlin, no! He made that my job,” Tonks assured. “S’why I thought I’d see if you needed help. I could use some practice.”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Well informed,” came Harry’s dry response. “Besides, he was useless regardless. Chickened out and made Moony do it.” Sirius had made a valiant attempt, only a few days after the house had cleared out at the start of the school term. Apparently bolstered by Harry not denying whatever was brewing between him and George, he’d taken it upon himself to make sure Harry was properly educated on the subject — only to stutter out some excuses, and thrust him in Remus’ direction. Remus, to his credit, had just laughed and sat him down for an open and surprisingly easy conversation; then gave him a book about it all and sent him on his merry way.

“Oh, good,” Tonks said, relieved. Then she pouted. “Can I practice on you anyway? I know _loads_ about boys. And girls. Ginny might need info on both.”

“How about you stick to teaching me how to break someone’s nose?” Harry reminded, attempting to get them back on track.

“Ooh, yeah, we did get a bit side-tracked. Sorry.” Tonks glanced at Harry contemplatively. “D’you think I should teach Ginny that, too?”

Harry thought of the youngest Weasley, and how terrifying she was already. “Pretty sure she already knows.” She’d grown up with six brothers, after all.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tonks sighed. “Ah well. Guess you’ll have to let me impart some of my wisdom after all.”

“As long as it’s not sex wisdom, I’m okay with that.”

.-.-.-.

Awkward conversations with Tonks aside, Harry was enjoying his time at Grimmauld Place. There was just enough keeping him busy so he didn’t get lonely, and the twins seemed to have a sixth sense about calling on the mirror just when he was starting to grow melancholy. They were going all-in on pranking Umbridge from the sounds of things, and George was convinced the other teachers were helping them out. Apparently Flitwick gave him an alibi when Umbridge accused him of charming her cardigan buttons to blow raspberries whenever she said the word ‘Ministry’.

The only hiccup in the peace he’d found was when Dumbledore tried to send Remus to liaison with a werewolf pack for a month or so. Luckily, Remus got out of it by pointing out that any werewolf would smell Harry Potter all over him, and they didn’t want to put Harry in danger like that. Harry wished he could have seen Dumbledore’s face.

So far, the headmaster hadn’t offered Harry any more information on his connection with Voldemort, or his apparent search into Voldemort’s immortality. Then again, Harry hadn’t asked. Dumbledore clearly didn’t think him capable of doing any real research or damage to the Dark, despite their conversation after Harry’s trial. He was probably delighted to have Harry distracted by his faux auror training. He had no idea that Harry was already several steps ahead.

He and Remus hadn’t found much else on horcruxes in the library, but they’d started to learn the signs of them in histories of ancient dark wizards and witches, references to ‘sacred objects’ and allegations of soul magic. It was nothing they could use — but it had been enough to give Harry an idea.

It was supposed to be one of his ‘days off’; AKA, days in which all the others were too busy with their own stuff and thought Harry should have a break from training, so he amused himself by learning spells he’d seen in books, or from Hermione’s copious note-taking. Not that he was following the curriculum by any stretch of the imagination; he didn’t think McGonagall would approve of his wandless method of transfiguration, which involved no specific spells or movements whatsoever and was mostly about thinking really hard about wanting one thing to become another. The more he worked on using his magic instinctually with the aurors, the more he learned that it was less about specifics and more about intention — in a fight, most people wouldn’t have time to yell the spells they were casting or make elaborate wand movements, though the motions did help direct magic for more intricate work.

It was the complete opposite of the magic he was being taught right now. He’d invited — or lured, Sirius insisted it was luring — Bill Weasley to Grimmauld with the request of a lesson in warding, which was magic wholly unlike anything he’d studied before, reliant on runes and calculations and detail. It was fascinating, and he was definitely truly interested; it just wasn’t the real reason he’d wanted to talk to Bill.

“You must have seen all kinds of really old dark magic in the tombs in Egypt,” he commented, once Bill was finished explaining how wardstones were made and set. Bill blinked at the non-sequitur.

“Absolutely. The kind of stuff the old pharaohs did, or had other people do for them… some of it’s really horrible stuff.” He looked excited by it, with the same face the twins got when talking about new pranks they’d invented. Probably the same face Charlie would get talking about dragons, if Harry ever got the chance to ask him. The more he got to know the Weasley siblings, the more he was drawing connections between them, realising how similar they were despite the huge age range. “Not all of it’s dark, though; a lot of the stuff curse breakers get called in for is just complicated magic. Though even the curses that aren’t really dark are still usually fairly dangerous — the best way to protect something is to make people regret touching it, after all.”

“Have you ever come across something called a horcrux?” Harry tried to keep his voice casual. He knew it was a risk, asking Bill about it, but as he’d argued with Sirius on the matter; Bill was the most likely person he knew to have heard about the foul magic. Or if he didn’t, he might know someone who did.

The redhead pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I might’ve done. It certainly sounds familiar. What is it?”

Harry took a deep breath. No going back, now. “It’s when someone splits their soul and puts part of it in an object. Voldemort has them. It’s why he didn’t die when I was a baby.”

Bill’s jaw dropped. “I— Merlin,” he breathed, stunned. His blue eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I need to know how to find them, and how to destroy them, and Remus and I can’t find anything about it in the library here. We have one of them. Maybe two. We don’t know how many more there are.”

Quickly, so Bill couldn’t get too freaked out by it all, Harry gave him the cliff notes of Regulus’ letter and the locket, and his own realisation about his scar. The eldest Weasley sibling looked horrified by the time Harry stopped talking.

“And you’re not going to Dumbledore about this because…”

“Because he probably already knows, and isn’t telling me anything because he thinks I’m _not ready yet_ ,” he said with an irritated roll of his eyes. “Though I don’t think he knows how to destroy them, or he’d have done my scar by now.”

 _Unless it could only be destroyed by death_ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a thought he’d been firmly ignoring for weeks now. He refused to think of that possibility. Not until he had no other choice. And if that happened, well… he’d deal with that when it came to it.

He was going to do his damnedest to live through this war.

“The goblins have records on just about every branch of magic known in the world,” Bill told him. “Even non-human magic. If these horcrux things have been made by dark magic users before, like you’ve said, then they’ll probably have some information on them somewhere. I just might have to ask around a bit.” The curse breaker’s lips pursed. “They’ll want to know why I’m asking. Especially if it’s as dark as it sounds.”

Harry had anticipated as much. “Can you trust them? Your team, the goblins you work with?”

“With my life,” Bill said without hesitation. “I’ve been with the same team since I started working for Gringotts — it wasn’t just me who transferred to the UK this summer, we all did. I let my parents think it was because of the war, but it was on the cards regardless; we’ve been working on some pretty nasty dig-sites over in North Wales, I know Mum would freak if she knew.”

“She won’t hear it from me,” Harry promised. “And… if you trust them, if you’re absolutely positive you can get the information without risking it getting to the wrong ears that someone’s asking questions about horcruxes, then please, I can use all the help I can get.”

“No one working for Gringotts would side with Voldemort even a little bit,” Bill assured him. “We’ve got all sorts — goblins, wizards, veela, vampires, even some merpeople employed by the bank, for underwater treasure and stuff. It’s not the place for anyone who believes in magical supremacy of any kind.”

Harry shouldn’t have been so surprised at how diverse Gringotts was; talking to Stonehook had made it very clear how little the Goblin Nation cared for the narrow-minded opinions of wizards. He hadn’t thought it possible to employ merpeople, though. It probably just wasn’t legal by Ministry standards. The Nation laughed at Ministry standards.

“Anything you can find out will be helpful. I’m more worried about how to locate the rest than destroying the one I’ve got — as mad as Voldemort is, he could have dozens of the things.” None of the books Harry had read discussed the possible limits of soul-splitting, or other forms of soul magic. They just held vague warnings about fractured sanity and over-taxing your magic, burning out if you pushed too hard.

Bill’s face was grim. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He fiddled with the end of his ponytail, suddenly looking hesitant. “Did you actually want to learn about warding, or did you just need to get me here?”

“Oh, no, I want to learn!” Harry assured quickly, not wanting to lose this new avenue of magic. “I’ll need to study runes more if I want a chance in hell of actually understanding it, but I’d love to learn protective wards if nothing else.” The idea of being able to ward a space to make it safe was very appealing to Harry. He was less into the curse-breaking side of things — he didn’t have the patience for that, or the magical finesse without his wand — but warding was fascinating.

That seemed to cheer Bill up, and he rolled his sleeves to his elbows, diving back into the explanation. Harry tried hard to keep up — and not to get his hopes up too soon. If Bill was right, if the goblins did have some record of horcruxes, then he could be on his way to ending the war a lot sooner than he’d dared hope.


	12. Chapter 12

Even though he hardly left the house, Harry noticed when it started getting dark earlier and earlier, winter drawing ever closer. Kreacher kept the fires going through the house, but there was still a bit of a chill to the place, and the new jumpers he’d bought were getting plenty of use.

He woke early one morning, head aching from yet another Voldemort-sent dream of a Ministry corridor, stomach rumbling the only thing urging him out of his warm cocoon of blankets. He absently cast a warming charm over himself, glancing at the clock and deciding to head down. Sirius and Remus might not be up yet, but they soon would be if he started cooking. It was the full moon that night — Remus would be starving.

Perking up at the thought of getting a full English going, Harry padded down the stairs and into the kitchen — and froze.

The other occupants of the house were in fact up already. Remus was sat on the counter, heels hooked gently around Sirius’ thighs, one hand buried in jet black hair as they kissed lazily. Amused, Harry cleared his throat.

The pair instantly sprang apart, Remus almost falling off the counter in his haste. Both their faces were bright red. “Pup! This is— we were just— I—“ Sirius spluttered, and Harry’s smile faltered at the genuine alarm on his godfather’s face.

“Wait, did you think I didn’t know?”

“You knew!?” Remus yelped. Harry opened the cold box, searching for the paper-wrapped bacon within.

“Uh, yeah. You’re both kind of… obvious.” Harry had assumed they were just being discreet, or didn’t want the Order to know. “Is it supposed to be a secret?” He levitated the eggs out when his hands became too full to carry everything. “Do we have any mushrooms around here?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sirius’ eyes darted between Harry and Remus anxiously. “How long have you known?”

“I didn’t think I needed to say anything! You look at him like he hung the damn moon! No pun intended,” Harry added, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I was never going to actually believe he sleeps in the spare room down the hall from yours. All his books are in the master bedroom.” He truly hadn’t realised they thought him oblivious. A thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “Did… did you not want me to know?”

“What? Cub, no!” Remus hastened to assure him. “We just didn’t want to spring it on you like this. We didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“Did you miss the bit where I’m also a massive homosexual?” Harry asked dryly, watching Sirius choke on his tea. “I’m hardly likely to be prejudiced.”

“Not like that. Just… I was your professor, and Sirius is your godfather…”

Seeing the genuine upset on the werewolf’s face, Harry’s frown deepened. “Why would that bother me? You’re both family. I’ve known for ages that you two are together. I think it’s great.”

“Really?” Sirius brightened. Harry grinned at him, bumping him with his hip on his way to the stovetop.

“Yeah, I’m glad you’re happy. You both deserve it.”

“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“Only in like, the same way imagining Mr and Mrs Weasley having sex makes me uncomfortable,” Harry replied, making a face. “You guys are like my parents now. It’s weird.” He turned to the bacon he was frying, and thus completely missed the awed expressions the two men had. “Just remember your silencing charms, keep the R-rated stuff to your bedroom, and we’re good. You don’t have to pretend to be nuns in front of me, Merlin.” His cheeks went pink. “I think it’s kinda cute.” He’d seen how utterly besotted they were from the moment they’d reunited in the Shrieking Shack at the end of his third year. He didn’t know whether they’d dated prior to Sirius’ stint in Azkaban, or if it was a matter of feelings they’d kept hidden until now, but… it was nice, seeing two men just _be_ together. Something he’d never experienced in the muggle world, certainly not with Vernon regularly kicking off about ‘the gays’ and how they were everything wrong with the world.

It was the love he could see between Sirius and Remus that had helped him come to terms with his feelings for George. Suddenly, he froze. “It’s not— it’s not illegal or anything, is it? Like with the muggles?” Everyone around him seemed to be totally fine with all kinds of sexualities, but they could just be particularly progressive people.

“No, no, don’t worry,” Remus soothed. “We can’t get married, but that’s because I’m a werewolf, not because we’re two men.”

“Werewolves can’t get married?” Harry’s voice rose in anger. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Tell me about it,” Sirius muttered, annoyed. He sidled closer to Harry, grey eyes hopeful. “You really don’t mind? About me and Moony?”

“Of course not, you daft sod,” Harry said, sliding an arm around him in a brief hug — and slapping his hand away when he tried to steal a piece of mushroom off the cutting board. “So if you’ve been sneaking around for my sake, you can stop it.”

“Ooh, you hear that, Moony,” Sirius drawled, darting around Harry to stand in front of Remus, who was still sat on the countertop. “Permission to stop sneaking.” He threaded his fingers through Remus’ bedhead, pulling him down into a kiss. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Not permission to be gross,” he reminded. “If you’re gonna be like that, go back to bed. Why are you two up so early, anyway?”

They stopped kissing, but Remus kept a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, playing with the longer strands of his hair. “I got restless. It happens, this time of the month. I wanted food, but — we got distracted.” He blushed, making Harry laugh.

“Good thing I showed up, then, isn’t it?” he teased. “Get off my counters, I’ll have a fry up done in just a mo’.” He gently shoved Remus off the edge of the counter, and Sirius snickered, hugging the teen around the waist and kissing the top of his head.

“Best godson ever,” he declared. Harry’s stomach fluttered happily.

“I— I love you guys,” he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. “You know that, right?” He was still properly getting to know them, but the last few months of living together had been some of the best months of Harry’s life.

“We love you too, kid,” Sirius replied. “Ooh, hash browns? You spoil us, Harry.”

“You won’t get any if you keep getting in my way,” he mock-threatened.

Obediently, Sirius retreated to the kitchen table. Remus followed, only after pouring Harry a cup of tea. He still looked a bit dazed — Harry wasn’t sure if it was the conversation, or just the full moon having him out of sorts.

He shook his head to himself; those idiots, thinking he’d be bothered by their relationship. Thinking they’d managed to keep it hidden. A blind person could see how in love they were. Even Hermione might have figured it out. He snorted quietly — Ron was still oblivious, though.

Unfortunately, the good mood in the kitchen lasted only up until the newspaper was delivered — the front page had a picture of Umbridge stood at Dumbledore’s podium in the Great Hall, smiling her sickly-sweet smile. ‘ ** _Ministry Seeks Educational Reform. Dolores Umbridge Appointed First Ever High Inquisitor_** ’the headline read.

“What the hell is a High Inquisitor?” Harry asked, scowling as the witch waved coyly from her photo. Remus grabbed the paper, peering at it with a frown.

“A position the Ministry just invented to give them more control at Hogwarts,” he declared once he’d read the article, tossing it down in disgust. “She’s got the power to declare the other teachers _unsuitable for the job_. Also sounds like she can make her own school rules, go over the headmaster’s head on disciplinary matters, that sort of thing.”

“Bloody hell.” It made Harry’s stomach turn. His friends were having to deal with that hag! “Who’s she trying to fire?”

“Hagrid, almost definitely, once he gets back from— never mind. Probably Flitwick too if she’s feeling really brave,” Sirius commented. At Harry’s look of confusion, he elaborated. “Umbridge hates creatures, anyone with creature blood, anyone who’s supportive of creatures. Almost all the creature restriction laws in the last decade have gone through at her insistence. She’d have everyone not entirely human rounded up and killed, if she could.”

Harry was glad he’d mostly finished eating — that would have put him off his breakfast entirely, otherwise. “Is she the reason you two can’t get married?”

“Me being an escaped convict doesn’t help,” Sirius pointed out ruefully. “But yeah, she pushed through the werewolf marriage laws. Foul woman, she is.”

“I can’t see Dumbledore letting her get away with all this.” Harry scowled — he needed to talk to the twins. They’d been annoyingly tight-lipped on the subject of Umbridge lately. Just how bad was it, there?

“He doesn’t really have a choice,” Remus said. “He might be a powerful man, but he’s in a precarious position right now, and his reputation’s taken a serious hit since June. Rocking the boat right now could get him fired, and then the students would be far worse off.”

Harry might not be Dumbledore’s biggest fan right now, but the thought of Hogwarts without him, left open to the Ministry’s interference, made his blood run cold.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “Everyone’s at school and dealing with this _bitch_ and there’s nothing I can do to help. I can barely even write anymore!” Hermione’s last letter had been cryptic and full of heavy implications that mail to and from the castle was being read these days. Harry hadn’t dared send anything in response. He’d wait until Christmas, but the separation was killing him.

If the twins didn’t have Sirius’ mirror, he’d probably have done something stupid by now.

“You’re doing everything you can, cub,” Remus soothed, patting his hand. “Some battles aren’t yours to fight.”

Harry knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier. He’d always been the one fighting in the past — even if his friends had helped, he’d always taken the brunt of things. He wasn’t there to do that anymore, and it tore him up inside, imagining what sort of horrors the people he cared about were facing.

He wished it wasn’t a Thursday. He’d have to wait until bedtime to call the twins; they had quidditch practice after dinner.

“Ugh,” he said eventually, scowling. “Please tell me there’s some more furniture around here I can practice curses on. I want to break something.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, ruffling Harry’s hair. “I’m sure we’ll find something, kiddo. Always do in this house.”

He’d apologise to Kreacher later.

.-.-.-.

There was an impromptu Order meeting called that night — likely in response to the Umbridge news, though naturally Harry was hurried up to his room as soon as the meeting began. At least Mrs Weasley had given him fresh-baked cookies before she sent him on his way.

“Are those Mum’s cookies?” George greeted enviously the moment his face became visible in the mirror. His hair was damp and sticking up a bit at the back, faint red marks visible around his eyes.

“Did you just shower, or was it pissing it down during practice?” Harry returned.

“Absolute cats and dogs,” Fred declared, shoving his twin aside so he could get a look in. “Looked like drowned rats by the end of it. Really hope the weather improves before our first match. If Umbridge even lets us play.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing.

“It’s just a rumour,” George placated. “She hates just about everyone on the Gryffindor team, people — mostly Slytherins — are trying to say her new position will let her refuse our right to play, if she wants.”

“Can she really do that?” Harry was horrified — she couldn’t cancel quidditch!

“Who knows, mate,” Fred grumbled. “Reckon the Minister would let her do just about anything around here.” He ran a hand through his hair, then hissed in pain. When he pulled it back, Harry saw the barest glimpse of red-raw skin on the back of his hand.

“You’ve had more detentions,” he realised, heart sinking.

“Only a couple. I promise, we’re fine. Keeping our heads down like good little boys.”

Harry snorted. “Pull the other one.” The twins had never been _good little boys_ in their lives. “Be careful, okay?”

The more he was learning about Dolores Umbridge, the more he was beginning to realise how dangerous an enemy she could be.

.-.-.

In the weeks that followed Umbridge’s appointment, it certainly seemed she wasn’t messing around. Fred and George had told him about her sitting in on classes, interviewing the teachers and making a general nuisance of herself. Harry couldn’t even be amused by George’s recounting of Ron’s story about Umbridge inspecting Snape, and Snape’s reaction to her presence in his classroom.

“I wish I could be there with you,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He was wearing his muggle contacts again — trying to get used to them, as Moody kept insisting his glasses made him a liability — and they were beginning to itch.

It was just George on the call today — Fred was off doing something to Umbridge’s classroom with Lee — and the redhead frowned. “Look, I miss you too, but to be honest you’re better off where you are. Hogwarts is… it’s different, this year. Not just because it doesn’t have your sparkling presence,” he added, attempting a roguish smile. “No one’s getting anything done with Umbridge sticking her nose in everywhere, and Defence classes are a joke. Hermione’s started this secret study group for it, to make sure everyone learns proper magic — both for exams, and for, y’know.” His face was grim; they were both very aware of what could be facing young magicals in the outside world these days. “If you were here, she’d probably want you to teach the damn thing. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you about it already.”

“We don’t write anymore,” Harry said sadly. “Mail’s being searched. It’s not safe.”

George swore, scowling. “Only five weeks ’til Christmas hols.”

“I know.” Harry was counting down the days, on a muggle calendar he had pinned to his wall above the desk.

“Oh, and hey, good news — we got permission for the Gryffindor team to keep playing!” George enthused. That prompted an explanation as to _why_ the team needed permission to keep playing, and the revelation of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.

“Hang on, you’re saying it came in the day after Hermione started her new study group? Doesn’t that seem a bit fishy to you?”

“I mean — it was just a little gathering in an old classroom,” George said, frowning. “Maybe thirty of us, tops. Half of them just wanted to ask questions about you, to be honest.”

Thirty didn’t sound like a _little_ gathering, and Harry said as much. “She could be in serious trouble if Umbridge catches on you’re still meeting.” Part of him was proud of his friends, how they were taking charge and making sure people at Hogwarts were ready for the worst. But the bigger part — the part that now knew what very real consequences could come of things like this, in their current corrupt Ministry — was wracked with guilt and worry.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” George assured. “Hey, Harry, look at me.” Harry froze, green eyes meeting brown. George held his gaze, and slowly the tension started to leak out of Harry’s shoulders. “We’re doing fine, here. You worry about all that stuff you’re doing and not telling me about, alright? Freddie and I will keep your friends safe.”

“And what about you two?” Harry asked quietly. George smiled.

“If shit goes down, you’ll have more company where you’re at,” he half-joked. “Can’t say it’s the worst outcome in the world.”

Right then, Harry could think of few things he wanted more than George back at Grimmauld, with him. But not at the extent of the redhead’s schooling.

“You look really different without your glasses, y’know,” George told him, a blush rising beneath his freckles. “Your eyes are— really green.”

It was Harry’s turn to blush. “If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not working,” he warned, tamping down the smile threatening to emerge. George winked at him.

“No distractions, just the truth.” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “Here’s a distraction, though — we’re playing Slytherin in less than a fortnight, and Ron’s too nervous to hold the bloody quaffle.”

It was a distraction that worked; Harry groaned, having heard a fair few complaints from the twins about Ron’s quidditch ability. “He’s still having trouble?”

“He’s not bad, honestly. He just gets so _anxious_ , then he starts making mistakes. Seems to think he’s got to be perfect to honour you or some shit, too — I swear, Ginny’s going to hex him if he says anything more about _not letting you down_. She’s nervous, too, but at least she knows she’s good.”

“I wish I could talk to him. Give him a pep talk,” Harry sighed, frustrated. Neither of them suggested the twins reveal the truth of the mirror to Ron, even in the face of potential loss to Slytherin. Harry selfishly didn’t want his only communication with George to be taken away from him, nor to have to explain to his best friend why he’d given the mirror to the twins to begin with. Everyone else who knew, nothing had ever been said out loud… not even by him and George themselves. If Harry had to voice it, put actual words to the feeling in his chest that had been growing for over a year, it would make it real — and make it torture to be separated from the redheaded prankster. They were only coping now by the unspoken agreement to leave things well alone.

“I’d say risk sending a letter with an owl less obvious than Hedwig, but honestly, a pep talk from you might just make the pressure worse,” George muttered. “I just want the match over with, honestly.”

“It’s tough luck, playing Slytherin first.” Why couldn’t it have been Hufflepuff? That would’ve been a much better way to ease Ron into the sport.

There was a commotion on George’s end of the mirror, before a second face squeezed into view. Fred threw himself down on the bed, practically sprawled on top of his twin. “Alright, there, Harry?” he greeted, ignoring George squirming to get less suffocated. “How’s life in the outside world?”

“Better than your end, from the sounds of things,” Harry replied. “What’ve you done to Umbridge now?”

“Oh, just gifted her a new plate for her office wall,” Fred said airily. “She does so love her decorations. Lee’s cousin found a really great one, just her style — I think the German Shepherd will get along just _smashingly_ with all her kittens.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Did you tell him about Trelawney, or were you too busy staring into his eyes?” Fred teased, glancing at his twin. George’s face burned.

“What about Trelawney?” Harry resolutely did not acknowledge the remark about his eyes. Fred was the _worst_.

“She’s been put on probation by Umbridge,” George piped up. Harry raised an eyebrow — that didn’t sound like too bad a development.

“Can’t say I’m sad about it,” he confessed. “Do wonder who else she’ll go after, though. Is Hagrid back yet?”

“No sign of him,” Fred answered sadly. “We were hoping you might have more news.”

“I’ve not heard anything.” Tonks had let slip ages ago that Hagrid was on a mission for the Order in France, but Harry hadn’t heard any details since. He knew just enough to keep track of what Dumbledore was up to, and let the specifics stay a mystery — both for plausible deniability, and because quite frankly he had enough on his plate without worrying about what the entire Order were up to. He still hadn’t found anything useful about destroying horcruxes, and he was starting to run out of books in the Black library.

He stayed on the mirror for a little bit longer before letting the twins go, scowling to himself and pacing his room. He almost thought about going to talk to Sirius about things, but it was late, and Remus had only just gotten back after a week away on Order business. He didn’t want to disturb them.

He grabbed his glasses and headed to the bathroom, intending to take his contacts out and go to bed.

All he could do was keep working on his own things, hope that Dumbledore’s work with the Order was proving fruitful, and let everything else rest in the hands of others. He hadn’t shown his face in the magical world since his trial, and it was for the best — let Fudge think he’d gone back to the muggle world with his tail between his legs. The more time he and Umbridge spent bragging over their ‘defeat’ of Harry Potter, the less time they had to make things more difficult for his friends.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry could tell from the moment he saw Fred and George in the mirror that the quidditch match against Slytherin had gone terribly. His heart turned to lead. “How bad was the score?”

“Oh, no, we won,” Fred assured, lips quirking in a brief smile. “Ginny beat Malfoy to the snitch; that bit was great.”

“Then why do you look like Slytherin have won the cup already?”

Reluctantly, the pair told him about the Slytherins’ new song, and the effect it had on Ron’s performance. “And that’s not even starting on what Malfoy said once the game was over.”

Beside him, Fred’s jaw clenched so hard his cheek twitched. “I almost punched the little git, I swear,” he scowled.

“It’s a good thing the girls held us back,” George agreed. “Else Malfoy would be in the hospital wing right now. And we’d probably be in detention til Easter.”

“Ginny got him, though, we think.”

“Ginny punched Malfoy?” Harry yelped in alarm. Fred shook his head.

“Nah, she’s way sneakier than that, our sister. I didn’t really see it — Angie and Katie had hold of me, Ginny was stopping George from knocking Malfoy’s lights out. Ron had already gone to drown himself in the showers,” he added, rolling his eyes. “The bastard said something about Mum — I won’t repeat it — and I thought for a second Ginny was gonna let George go and take her own swing. She got her wand out instead, though; behind George’s back, where no one could see it.”

“I didn’t hear what she cast, but she told me Malfoy probably wouldn’t be in classes on Monday,” George said. “He seemed fine when we walked away.”

“Ginny won’t tell us the spell she used.” Fred looked both annoyed and impressed. “She just mentioned she had a promise to keep to you.” The twins eyed him expectantly, and a laugh bubbled from Harry’s lips.

“There’ll be pictures, then, whatever she’s done,” he told them. They shared a look that seemed to hold an entire conversation.

“Our sister’s a bit terrifying, y’know,” George said eventually. Harry and Fred both nodded.

“Just don’t piss her off,” Harry suggested wisely. “And look on the bright side — you beat Slytherin, and the worst match is over now. Regardless of what happens with Ron, the rest of the season’ll be a piece of cake.” Unless there had been serious line-up changes, Harry couldn’t see Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw posing much of a problem. Gryffindor would keep the cup for another year.

He just wouldn’t be there to lift it.

His gaze caught George’s, and the redhead smiled sympathetically. “It’s almost Christmas hols, too,” he added.

“Yeah,” Harry echoed, gut suddenly full of a buzzing, warm sensation. “You guys are spending it here. Your mum tried to convince me to come to the Burrow, but I wasn’t gonna leave Moony and Padfoot behind. Tonks is bringing the decorations over tomorrow.” He couldn’t wait; his first Christmas with his godfathers. His family.

George beamed. “Brilliant.”

.-.-.

“ _God rest ye merry hippogriffs, let nothing you dismay!”_

The singing drifting through the ajar library door made Harry snicker, and Remus’ lips curved in a fond smile. “Idiot,” he muttered, voice full of affection.

“Leave him be.” Harry closed the book on his lap, his eyes starting to hurt from reading the tiny font in Old English. He really needed to get better at translation charms. “What did he do last Christmas, d’you know?”

“Got really drunk on my sofa and threatened to break into Hogwarts to see you,” Remus supplied, shaking his head. “Better than the Christmas before, which he says he spent in the Shack.”

And the twelve Christmases before that, Harry thought sadly. “This is gonna be the best Christmas ever,” he declared.

“You’re just saying that because George will be here soon.”

Harry blushed, but his smile didn’t falter. “Not just that.” Though he was looking forward to that very much. “I haven’t had a proper Christmas in… well, ever, really.” Christmas at Hogwarts was nice, but it was still very much a huge reminder that the only people there were the ones who didn’t have a home to go back to. And before Hogwarts, well — Christmas wasn’t for freaky little nobodies like Harry.

Remus’ smile turned sad. “I’m sorry it’s taken this long, cub. If I’d been able to do something…”

“Don’t,” Harry cut him off. “It’s not your fault. I don’t have to go back to them anymore, that’s all I care about. We’ve got plenty of Christmases to look forward to, now.”

Remus stretched one long arm over the back of the sofa, tugging Harry across the space between them, pressing a kiss to his hair. “That we do. This is just the first of many.” They heard a faint crash interrupt Sirius’ singing, then a pause, before the song resumed louder and more boisterous before. “He’s gonna spoil you rotten, y’know. Even after the Firebolt, he still thinks he’s got all these years in presents to make up for.”

“Oh, Moony, no,” Harry groaned. “Please tell me you’re stopping him.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Remus replied, grinning. “Godfathers’ prerogative to spoil our godson.”

“I don’t need anything,” Harry insisted, his insides glowing warmly at how easy Remus said those words. _Our godson_. “Just being here with you both is enough, really.”

“It’s more than I ever dreamed possible,” the werewolf agreed, voice cracking faintly. “But he’s missed out on so much… seeing that joy in his eyes again, I can’t say no. Sorry.” He didn’t sound it even a little bit.

“Sap,” Harry accused playfully.

“Yup!” Remus was unrepentant.

“How did you cope? All those years, with him in Azkaban?” Harry asked before he could help himself. So often they thought of the years Sirius had been locked away, or Harry’s time spent at the Dursleys’ — it was easy to forget that in many ways, Remus had been just as lonely in those years.

“I put everything that reminded me of him in a box, and I refused to look at that box, ever. Also, copious amounts of alcohol.” Remus’ amber eyes grew sad. “Those years after losing James and Lily — losing everything.” Because of course, he’d thought Peter was his friend too, and had been killed by Sirius. “I was… not myself. I spent a lot of time with various werewolf packs, trying to find something like family, but it never felt the same as it had with the Marauders. Not ’til Dumbledore tracked me down and begged me to come teach, and I met this scrawny little lad with messy black hair and his mother’s big green eyes.” He smiled, smoothing Harry’s hair down. “In a way, I’m glad Sirius and I were never— we’d been a bit like you and your boy, before everything, The timing was never right. Unfortunately, neither of us knew how long it would take before the timing really _was_. Even now, at times, I sometimes feel like the sensible thing would’ve been to wait. With him on the run, and Voldemort looming over all our heads… it feels like I shouldn’t have distractions. But I didn’t stop loving him even when I hadn’t said the words, and it certainly didn’t make me worry any less.”

“I’m glad you’re not waiting,” Harry said. It would have been heartbreaking to watch the pair of them pine for each other under the same roof.

“Me, too.” They went silent for a long moment, Remus’ fingers carding through Harry’s hair. The touch was soothing for Harry’s aching head; he was getting dreams from Voldemort just about every other night, now. “Don’t wait too long yourself, alright, cub? If you think you’re keeping him safe, or keeping yourself focused… after long enough, it’s not worth it. Every moment is precious, in times like these.”

“It’s— it’s not like that,” Harry sighed. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he knew Remus would get it. “I know none of us are safe. But— if I hadn’t been expelled, things would be different.”

Remus hummed in understanding. “I thought as much. Padfoot was worried about you. I told him you weren’t quite as self-flagellating as we were at your age.”

“My friends might say otherwise,” Harry remarked wryly, making the werewolf snort. “But— tell him not to worry. We’ll get there.” He had no doubt about that. No doubt about the intensity of the feelings involved. The circumstances were just terrible.

“Good. I look forward to being able to tease you in front of the rest of the Weasleys about it.”

“Git.” Harry poked the man in the ribs.

All of a sudden, the door burst open, Sirius making a dramatic stance in the doorway. His eyes softened at the sight of the pair of them. “Here I am, _slaving away_ with the Christmas decorations,” he sighed, stalking over, “and you two are cosying up together in the library! You told me you were working!”

“We were. It’s a little hard to concentrate with you caterwauling in the background,” Remus teased. Sirius gasped, mock-offended.

“Rude!” He leaned in, pecking Remus on the lips and ruffling Harry’s hair. “How are my favourite boys doing this afternoon?”

“Wondering if my eyes can survive another trip downstairs with all the tinsel you’ve put up. I’m blind enough without your help.”

Sirius laughed, plucking Harry’s glasses off his face and setting them on his own nose. “Blimey, you’re not wrong there! Even James wasn’t nearly this bad.”

Harry snatched his glasses back, scowling half-heartedly.

“Did you need us for something, or is it Give Padfoot Attention time?” Remus asked with a playful lilt.

“Moony, dearest, it’s _always_ Give Padfoot Attention time,” the animagus insisted. “But I came to see if you could be dragged away from your dusty old books and persuaded to help me make Christmas cookies.”

“And by help, you mean make Christmas cookies for you,” Harry surmised; he’d seen Sirius bake, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Well, if you’re offering, I shan’t say no!” Sirius batted his eyelashes theatrically. “How about it, kiddo?”

Harry had to admit, that _did_ sound good. “I got some boiled sweets at the corner shop the other day, I could make stained-glass biscuits?” They might not be the most glamorous of treat, but Harry had a soft spot for them; Petunia always used to make him bake them to hang on their tree, and Dudley only liked the strawberry, blackcurrant or orange flavoured ones, so Harry could occasionally sneak one of the lemon or lime flavoured biscuits into his cupboard.

“Fantastic! Moony, what’re you bringing to the table?” Sirius demanded imperiously. Remus untangled himself from Harry, getting to his feet.

“If you give me a minute, I’ve got Monty’s white chocolate almond biscuit recipe written down in our room somewhere,” he volunteered, taking Sirius’ hand when the animagus froze. “I found it tucked in an old diary when I was going through my things to move in here. I was going to give it to Harry for Christmas, but… we could pick the tradition back up? If you still remember the cookie-cutting spell?”

“You— I didn’t know he ever wrote it down for you,” Sirius croaked. Harry watched the pair, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“A couple weeks before he and Phee died,” Remus admitted quietly. “He knew they weren’t doing well. Wanted me to make sure you and James still got your favourites at Christmas. Neither of you were up for it that first year, and Lily and James had gone into hiding the year after.”

“I… my granddad baked cookies at Christmas?” Harry cut in tentatively, wanting to learn more about the family he’d never known.

Sirius beamed at him through the pain in his eyes, hauling him up to his feet. “Oh, Harry, he made the _best_ cookies! Said it was a secret Potter recipe, that you only got to learn it if you married into the family. I threatened to marry James just for that recipe, but Prongsy wasn’t having it. And there’s a spell, too — Phee taught us when we were kids, it cuts them into snowflake shapes, that’s the _only_ way to eat them. Don’t taste right in any other shape.” He turned to Remus abruptly, accusation in his eyes. “Why’d he give you the recipe? You weren’t marrying a Potter.”

Remus leaned in, kissing him, eyes dancing when he pulled back. “I might as well have been. Monty knew, even then.”

Sirius’ lips parted, breath catching in a sharp inhale. “Oh.” Then his brain seemed to catch up with the rest of him, and he smiled so wide it looked like it hurt. “ _Oh_.”

“I’ll meet you two in the kitchen,” Harry declared, mock-gagging as he stepped around the pair. “It’ll be less sugary down there.”

“Don’t be jealous, pup; it doesn’t suit you!” Sirius teased in reply.

Harry left the room laughing, a spring in his step.

.-.-.-.

Harry screamed as he lurched up out of bed, instantly leaning over the side to vomit on the hardwood floors. His forehead seared with pain like someone had pressed a white hot iron to it, and he could still taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, the press of his fangs against flesh.

His eyes wide, he wrestled his way out of the sheets he’d tangled himself up in, pyjamas sticking to his skin with icy sweat. Waving his hand to vanish the mess on his floor, he pressed a hand to his burning head, grimacing.

That had been real. That had been so, _so_ real. And he knew the man who now lay bleeding and dying on the Ministry floor.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he rasped, focusing his thoughts, chest easing a fraction when Prongs leapt into existence, lighting up the room. “Go to Albus Dumbledore. Tell him — Arthur Weasley has been attacked by Voldemort’s snake. He needs help, immediately.” He focused again on the tweak of the spell necessary to use the patronus as a messenger, the way Kingsley had taught him only a few weeks ago. The stag bowed its majestic head, then disappeared.

Harry prayed it worked. There was no time to send a letter, not all the way to Hogwarts. Mr Weasley would be dead before an owl could even reach the castle.

Not wanting to put all his trust in the magic he wasn’t yet familiar with, Harry leapt to his feet. The silencing charm over his room — the one he’d used regularly since the nightmares had picked up in frequency — would have stopped Sirius and Remus from hearing anything. He thundered up the stairs, not caring if his footsteps woke Mrs Black, knocking on the door to the master bedroom. He didn’t wait for a response, shoving his way inside — in the dark, Remus’ sleep-fogged amber eyes stared back at him in confusion, quickly growing alert.

“Harry, what’s the matter? What happened?” He sat up, dislodging Sirius where the dark-haired man was asleep on his chest, and Sirius jerked awake.

“Mm, Rem, what?” he muttered, already closing his eyes again.

“Mr Weasley’s been attacked,” Harry blurted. Sirius’ eyes slammed open, and he scrambled into a sitting position.

“What?”

“I had a dream— a vision,” Harry relayed, staring down at his own trembling hands. “I was in the Ministry, the same corridor he’s always sending me, only I was— I was a snake, Mr Weasley was there, and he saw me, it— the snake bit him.” He shuddered, stomach roiling at the memory. “It’s bad. I felt ribs break, there was _so much blood_.”

Either oblivious or uncaring of the fact that he was only in a pair of boxers, Sirius jumped up and pulled Harry into a hug. “Easy, pup, easy. You’re alright. You’re safe. You’re not in his head anymore.”

“I sent a patronus to Dumbledore, but I don’t know if it worked. I don’t know how else to contact him. George says Umbridge is watching the fireplaces.”

“She can’t get to the headmaster’s fireplace,” Remus assured him grimly, keeping the sheets covering his lower half. “Quickly, cub, go downstairs and call him. It’s Albus Dumbledore’s Private Quarters, Hogwarts; the password is Phoenix. We’ll get dressed and meet you there.”

Harry nodded, heart still racing, mind fuzzy and fractured from the remnants of the vision. “Are you okay? Do you need me to come with you?” Sirius asked, cupping Harry’s cheeks. Harry shook his head and squared his shoulders.

“No, it’s fine. Get dressed.” He turned on his heel, hurrying out of the room and all the way down to the kitchen, lighting the lamps with a hasty wave of his hand. There was a small pot of floo powder on the mantle, and after taking a pinch Harry fell to his knees painfully hard on the tile, thrusting his head into the green flames. “Albus Dumbledore’s Private Quarters, Hogwarts!” he called. The flames whooshed, then turned purple. “Phoenix.” They turned green once more, and suddenly he was staring out at the bottom of a pair of chintz armchairs. “Professor Dumbledore!” he yelled, not caring if he woke the whole castle at this point.

“Harry!” the old man’s voice came from somewhere he couldn’t see, and after a beat he was kneeling on the hearth rug. Dumbledore wore a purple dressing gown patterned with moons and stars, his glasses crooked on his face. “I just received your patronus. What happened?”

“Had a vision,” he gasped out. “Mr Weasley, at the Ministry. Voldemort’s snake bit him — blood everywhere, Professor, he needs help _now_.”

“Was Voldemort there?” Dumbledore asked sharply. Harry growled in impatience. Did he not understand how dire this situation was??

“No, just the snake. I was the snake. He was controlling her, or possessing her, or something — look, Professor, Mr Weasley is _dying!”_

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. “I will raise the alarm. Do not go anywhere — I will contact you shortly.” He stood, hurrying away from the fireplace. For a minute, Harry stared ater him, incredulous. Where the hell did he think Harry was going to _go?_ To the Ministry, to get Mr Weasley himself??

He pulled his head from the flames, blinking against the disorienting motion. A large hand squeezed his shoulder. “Up you get, cub.” Remus helped him to his feet and into a chair; he and Sirius both wore pyjamas and dressing gowns now, wands in hand and slippers on their feet. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, he said he’d raise the alarm. He’s not— it’ll take too long for him to go get him himself. Mr Weasley could die.”

“Albus has many ways of getting messages around,” Sirius assured him. “He’ll get someone to Arthur in time. Now.” He sat down beside Harry, taking both the teen’s hands in his own. “Deep breaths, pup. Tell us what happened.”

Trying to calm his racing heart, Remus rubbing soothing circles on his back, Harry slowly began to organise his thoughts into words. “I was having a dream. It started out— normal. Christmas stuff. Then it changed. I thought it was just going to be another corridor dream, but— it was different. I was a snake, Voldemort’s snake. I had a job to do, but Mr Weasley was there. I wanted to bite him, but I wasn’t going to. He was asleep. But then he woke up, pulled his wand, and I—“ He broke off, throat closing up. “How is that possible? It was real, I know it was. But I haven’t had a real one in months! And never— never like that.” He’d figured out that the corridor dreams were false visions sent by Voldemort, and he knew why; it was the corridor to the Department of Mysteries, where the prophecy hall would be found. Voldemort wanted Harry curious, wanted Harry to go and get the prophecy that the Dark Lord wasn’t brave enough to attempt retrieving himself. He clearly couldn’t dig deep enough into Harry’s mind to know that Harry already knew the prophecy. But Harry knew those visions were fake; Voldemort obviously hadn’t been wandering around the Ministry every other night.

Once or twice, he’d had a vision of a Death Eater meeting, when Voldemort was particularly furious — or happy. Those had certainly been real. But those had all been from Voldemort’s eyes. Where did the snake come into things?

“We know Voldemort has a connection with his snake. He used her milk and venom to regain his strength, before he got his body back,” Remus said grimly. “We have no idea how deep that connection goes. Obviously it was enough to pull you along for the ride. Maybe he possessed her. Maybe he’s made her into a horcrux, too. Who knows.”

“Pup, you’re shaking,” Sirius fretted. In an instant, he had his dressing gown off and was wrapping it around Harry’s shoulders. It was warm, and smelled like Sirius’ aftershave — and a little bit of wet dog.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Remus announced, getting to his feet.

“Mrs Weasley,” Harry realised suddenly. “Someone should tell her.” He lurched, as if to return to the fireplace, but Sirius held him in his chair.

“Albus will take care of it. Though from what I’ve heard about that clock of hers, she probably already knows.” Harry thought about the Weasley family clock, his blood turning to ice at the thought of Mr Weasley’s hand pointing to _mortal peril_.

The kettle bubbled on the stove, and just as it began to whistle, there was a brief flash of fire over the kitchen table; a piece of parchment floated down, along with a single red feather. Harry snatched it up, recognising Dumbledore’s handwriting immediately.

_Arthur found, at St Mungo’s. Weasley children incoming shortly by portkey._

Relief hit him, but it didn’t last long — there was nothing in the note about what state Mr Weasley had been in when he was found.

“Moony, we’re having company. Albus is sending the kids over,” Sirius said, reading the note over Harry’s shoulder. Remus hummed, summoning several more mugs off the shelf. He deposited a mug of tea in front of Harry, as well as a small plate stacked with snowflake-shaped biscuits. Harry’s lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, which grew when the werewolf scooted his chair closer to keep one arm around Harry’s back, his own mug of tea in hand. Sirius gathered close too, tangling his fingers with Remus’ on the back of Harry’s chair.

He sipped at his tea, heart still hammering against his ribs. “He was on guard duty, wasn’t he?” Harry realised, voice hollow. “For the prophecy.” He might not have been in Order meetings, but between the three aurors and his godfathers, he’d heard enough. He knew that Sturgis Podmore had been arrested while on Order duty, and that Dumbledore was keeping eyes on the Department of Mysteries at all times.

Mr Weasley being in that corridor felt like Harry’s fault. If not for the prophecy, he wouldn’t have been there.

He shook away the thoughts. If anything, it was Dumbledore’s fault. Harry couldn’t think like that.

“He was,” Remus confirmed softly. “All Order members with Ministry access keep guard on rotation.”

Before Harry could ask any more, four bodies popped into existence by the doorway, all clustered around a teakettle that had seen better days. They were all in their pyjamas, looking scared and confused. It said a lot about Harry’s emotional state that he didn’t even feel better when George’s eyes met his. If anything, it just made him feel worse; their father was _dying_ , because he’d been on guard duty to protect the prophecy — to protect Harry.

“Harry!” Ginny rushed forward, skidding to a halt beside the awkward hug-bundle going on between the trio still sat on their chairs. “Dumbledore said— what happened?”

Harry untangled himself from his godfathers and stood, Sirius’ dressing gown still draped over his shoulders. Ginny immediately launched herself at him, hugging him around the waist. “Dumbledore said it was Voldemort,” she whispered, chalk-white and watery eyed. “He was in your head.”

“He said— he said Dad’s been hurt,” Ron croaked. Harry winced.

“Sit down, all of you, have some tea.” Remus made four more cups of tea and levitated them to the table, gently ushering the Weasleys to settle down. When Ginny let go of Harry, she looked at him with fear in her eyes. No, not fear — sympathy.

“Are you okay?” she asked, voice trembling. “Was it like— was it like the diary?”

“Oh, Gin, no,” Harry assured hastily. “Nothing like that. I’m okay, I promise. Just sit down, I’ll explain everything.”

With Sirius and Remus still bracketing him, the Weasley siblings sat opposite Harry at the table. They wrapped their hands around their mugs, but didn’t drink, watching Harry expectantly.

“I had a vision,” Harry began, not looking anyone in the eyes. “Like— y’know, like I’ve had before.” They all nodded, at least vaguely familiar with Harry’s nighttime jaunts into Voldemort’s head. “I was his snake, and I was in the Ministry. Your dad was there. I— the snake attacked him, bit him. I woke up, and sent a message to Dumbledore. I didn’t know he was going to wake you guys up.”

“It’s our dad,” Fred pointed out. “What was he doing in the Ministry at this time of night?”

Harry glanced at Remus. “Order work,” the werewolf said cryptically. “It’s not important.”

“Is— is Dad gonna be alright?” George croaked. “Does Mum know?”

“Your father’s at St Mungo’s,” Sirius said, which wasn’t an answer. “If Molly doesn’t know yet, she will soon. Albus will tell her.”

Ginny’s first instinct was to go to St Mungo’s, regardless of her pyjama-clad state, but Remus managed to talk her down.

“We can’t have anyone knowing about Harry’s visions,” he said evenly. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do anyway. Let the healers work — I’m sure there will be word soon. Drink your tea. Have a biscuit.” He nudged the plate of snowflake biscuits across the table. Harry reached for one, but merely turned it over in his hands, fingers worrying the spines of the snowflake until they began to crumble.

“Quit playing with your food, pup,” Sirius scolded half-heartedly. He shivered, then turned to the fire. “Need to put more wood on. Kreacher!”

The house elf appeared, sparing barely a glance at the extra guests. “Masters is up late,” he muttered. “Kreacher will tend the fire.” He disappeared again.

“D’you want your robe back?” Harry asked, though he made no motion to take off the dressing gown.

“And expose your legs to this innocent young lady?” Sirius retorted, his heart not quite in the act of being scandalised, though Ginny managed a wet giggle. “Nah, might grab a jumper though.” Nonetheless, he didn’t move.

“Here.” Remus waved his wand, and a chunky knitted cardigan came sailing through the open doorway, landing in Sirius’ lap. The animagus flashed a quick smile, shrugging into the garment. It hung a little loose on him — even after months of solid meals, Remus was still broader in the shoulders — but he wrapped it around himself all the same. Harry saw Sirius’ nose press against the collar, inhaling the scent, but considering he’d done about the same to Sirius’ dressing gown he had no room to judge. Moony’s wolf instincts were rubbing off on both of them, perhaps.

All of a sudden, there was another burst of phoenix fire, and another piece of parchment; this one accompanied by a gold tail feather. Harry snatched it up. “It’s from Dumbledore,” he said unnecessarily. “Wait, hang on, that’s your mum’s writing. ‘ _Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will send news when I can. Mum’._ ” Harry looked up at the four pallid faces opposite.

Ron, who had been incredibly silent since Harry had explained his vision, looked around the table. “Still alive,” he echoed. “But… that makes it sound like…”

Harry’s stomach lurched, and he got to his feet, chair legs scraping loudly on the tile. “I can’t— I need—“ He gave up trying to find an excuse, fleeing the kitchen on unsteady legs.

He skidded to a halt in the entrance hall, unsure where to go. He couldn’t just _go back to bed_. Not while his friends were waiting to hear if their father was dead. The library, maybe? If he was going to be awake, he might as well do something useful. Or maybe he could go curse things in the ballroom. That might make him feel better; might get his mind off the feeling of baring his fangs and lunging to strike.

“Harry.” He whirled around. George approached, hair all stuck up on one side like he’d gone to bed with it still damp, wearing long-sleeved blue pyjamas with a large G embroidered on the shirt pocket. He was barefoot. Harry’s chest was painfully tight — this was not how he’d envisioned seeing George again. “Harry, come here.”

Harry stumbled back a step. “I’m just gonna—“ He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. George took a step forward.

“Please.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t move as George bridged the gap between them, tucking Harry’s head beneath his chin, holding him close. “You’re alright. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

“How can you say that?” Harry croaked. “You heard what I said — _I was the snake_. I— I bit your dad.”

“It wasn’t you and we both know it,” George waved him off. “Don’t be daft. Just… come back to the kitchen. Please.”

“I shouldn’t intrude,” Harry attempted weakly. He turned his face towards the soft cotton of George’s shirt, inhaling the sleep-warm scent of fireworks and toffee that he’d been dreaming about for months now.

“Don’t be daft,” George repeated. He held Harry tighter. Harry heard the older boy’s heart thudding beneath his ear, far faster than it should be. “Come on. Harry, love, _please_.”

It was that word that did it; that simple, whispered word, slipping off George’s tongue so easily despite being the first time he’d ever said it towards Harry, first time either of them had dared mention _anything_ of the sort. A quiet sob forced its way out of Harry’s throat.

Inside the kitchen, George’s other three siblings were grieving, and worrying, and likely not sparing a single thought for whatever was going on in Harry’s head, except perhaps to wonder if their friend was becoming a Dark Lord. And yet here was George, with Harry, reassuring him. That should be Harry’s job, right now.

With that sobering thought, he took in a deep breath, reluctantly pulling away from George’s embrace. He wriggled his arms into Sirius’ dressing gown, belting it properly over the t-shirt and boxer shorts he’d worn to sleep in. George’s lips twitched; the tiniest of smiles, the briefest of sparks in his gaze. He nudged Harry back towards the kitchen, and Harry went.


	14. Chapter 14

It felt like they sat in that kitchen forever.

Harry doubted anyone managed to finish their tea before it went cold. Ron ate a biscuit, but no one else touched the plate, their eyes darting to the clock on the wall, the fireplace, the doorway. Hoping for any sort of sign their father was okay. Harry sat between Sirius and Remus, their knees pressed comfortingly to his beneath the table, their hands linked behind his back. Occasionally Remus lifted his wand to do a round of warming charms on the tea. Other than that, they just watched the siblings grieve, and waited. Whenever it got too much, whenever Harry felt his pulse pick up and his breath began to choke him, George caught his eye across the table and he felt a little bit calmer.

It wasn’t how he’d expected to see his friends again, after three and a half months apart. Harry didn’t know what to do.

At last, just after five in the morning, the door swung open and Mrs Weasley entered the kitchen. Harry froze. Her face was drawn and pale, her hair half escaped from a messy bun. Her children all turned to look at her, and she gave a strained smile.

“He’s going to be alright,” she announced, voice tired. “He’s sleeping. We can all go and see him later — Bill’s sitting with him now.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, her words taking a second to fully process in the sleep-deprived brains. Then Ginny jumped to her feet, throwing herself at her mother in a tight hug. Ron slumped in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut, and the twins turned to look at each other, relief clear on their faces.

Harry didn’t move. Mrs Weasley’s words echoed through his head, again and again. Mr Weasley was okay. He’d survived the snake attack. Harry’s attack.

Perhaps when he’d had some rest, he would think how stupid he was being to act like he was responsible for the snake’s actions. He _knew_ it was Voldemort, he _knew_ he’d just been dragged along for the ride, but that didn’t change that he now had visceral, first-hand knowledge of what it was like to sink his fangs into Arthur Weasley’s ribcage.

“Let’s make breakfast, cub.” Remus’ soft voice cut into his hazy thoughts. Across the room, Sirius was hugging Mrs Weasley tightly. Harry looked around, lost.

Yes, breakfast. Cooking he could do. Cooking he was good at.

He got to his feet and made for the stove, warming the pans while Remus got bacon and eggs from the cold box. When he turned around to go fetch plates, he found himself wrapped in a rib-crushing Molly Weasley hug. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, relief audible, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if not for you. Arthur wouldn’t have been found until morning, for sure. He—“ She broke off with a sob. Harry stood there stiffly, letting her hug him and mutter about how grateful she was, how much trouble Arthur would’ve been in if Dumbledore hadn’t known and thought of a cover story. She let him go, and Harry was beyond grateful when she turned to Remus to thank him for keeping an eye on the kids all night. He focused his attention on the stove, trying to block out the sounds of the Weasleys’ happiness, of their gratitude that he didn’t deserve. Ron sidled past, clapping him on the shoulder with a muttered ‘good t’see you, mate’ before he claimed his fill of the food. Harry folded a couple of rashers of bacon between a slice of bread, nibbling on the corner, his stomach churning. It was all too much.

“Just breathe, pup,” Sirius’ husky voice murmured in his ear, a comforting pressure against his side. “Eat some breakfast, then you can go get some sleep. Don’t let this rattle you. You’ve had visions before, we know what they are. Let it pass like the others, and be glad this one was useful.”

The man spoke sense, and Harry tried to believe it. It had just been such a long time — all the visions of empty corridors and locked doors had lulled him into a false sense of security. Even the visions of Death Eater meetings; they only ever contained people he hated, or people he didn’t know, or Snape. Never anything like this.

Not wanting to burst the happy bubble his friends were now in — or draw attention to himself, in case they wanted more details about his vision — Harry took his bacon sandwich back to the table.

Luckily, breakfast was a short affair, the fatigue settling in quickly now the adrenaline was wearing off. They all trudged upstairs, and Ron had an awkward moment when he realised Harry no longer shared the room they had slept in during the summer. At last, Harry was back in his bedroom, alone. He flopped onto the mattress, not even bothering to remove Sirius’ dressing gown, and squeezed his eyes shut. There was still a dull throbbing behind his scar, and as he felt himself drift off, he sent a quick prayer to whoever might be listening that Voldemort was done for the night. He couldn’t take another vision so soon after the first.

.-.-.

They all slept until the early afternoon — when Harry trudged downstairs, he was surprised to see Moody and Tonks sat at the kitchen table with Sirius, Remus and the Weasleys. “We’re not training today, are we?” he asked, wondering if he’d got his schedule confused in the chaos of the night before. He didn’t notice Ron’s narrow-eyed look of alarm.

“Nah, don’t worry. We’re here to escort this lot to St Mungo’s,” Tonks assured him. “You’re off the hook for Christmas now, kid.”

Harry nodded, smiling though the news didn’t really make him happy. Of course, Mrs Weasley — who refused to hear anything about what the aurors were teaching Harry, claiming it all to be far too dangerous for a boy his age — wouldn’t want him keeping to his schedule while her children were there. She wouldn’t want them to see the sort of magic Harry could do now.

Harry didn’t really want them to see that, either. He didn’t need any more glaring signs of how different his life was to theirs after only a few short months.

Then, Tonks’ words hit him fully. He froze. “I can’t go to St Mungo’s, can I?” he realised dully.

“What? Of course you’re coming!” Ron argued. “You saved Dad’s life!” When he looked to the other adults in the room, they were grim-faced.

“I’m not supposed to be in the wizarding world anymore, Ron,” Harry pointed out. “There’ll be too many questions if I pop in just to visit your dad.” He gave a breezy smile that was entirely faked. “Give him my best, yeah? I hope he gets to come home soon. I’ll see him when they let him leave.”

“We can disguise you,” Fred suggested.

“You can pretend to be one of us,” George agreed. “We’ll take turns visiting.”

This time, Harry didn’t have to fake a smile. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s fine. Go see your dad. I’ll hang out here.” He could find something to do, if he wasn’t allowed to train. There were bound to be _some_ books in the library he hadn’t read yet, except for the ones that would bite off his hands if he tried.

“I’m sorry, Harry dear,” Mrs Weasley said, looking forlorn. “I know Arthur would love to see you, but it’s just too much of a risk, you understand.”

“Absolutely. It’s fine.” The wizarding world had to believe that he was in the muggle world, sulking and wandless and utterly removed from magic once again. “I’ll see you all when you get back.”

None of the Weasley kids looked thrilled about leaving Harry behind, but they were too eager to see their dad to put up much of a fight. Soon, it was just Harry, Sirius and Remus in the house once more. Harry could hardly believe that twenty-four hours ago they’d been baking up a storm in the kitchen, the two Marauders regaling him with stories of his Potter grandparents.

“Want to duel?” Sirius asked him, leaning back on the legs of his chair. Harry swallowed tightly.

“ _Merlin_ , yes.”

Remus insisted they eat something first, but didn’t put up a fight after, following them up to the ballroom Harry usually trained in. Sirius looked around, then chuckled. “Few more curse marks on the floor than I remember,” he remarked. “You’ve been busy up here, I see.”

“Not all of them were me,” Harry defended. The animagus barked out a laugh.

“Oh, I know. That one there’s been there for years — I was twelve. Father wanted to see if I was truly _brave_ enough for Gryffindor.” His lips became a bitter, twisted smile. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, palming his wand. “Ready?”

They bowed, and begun.

It was a freeing feeling, duelling with people who weren’t trying to kill him, but also weren’t holding back. Harry had only discovered the feeling since his expulsion, but he loved it. Magic buzzed from his fingertips as he dodged and returned fire, Sirius’ wand a blur. The two of them didn’t duel often, and Sirius was clearly a little rusty from his auror days, but at the same time Harry could see what the man must have been, once upon a time.

Duelling with Sirius was always interesting — he didn’t stick to the usual offensive magic, or even have a Charms or Transfiguration lean to his style like some duellists Kingsley had told him about. Instead, you were just as likely to be hit with a bone-breaking curse as a colour-change charm, or something to make all your hair turn into six-foot tentacles. By the time they were finished, Harry claiming victory with a choking curse from his left hand, they were both bruised and bloodied, and Harry’s clothes had become a French Maid’s outfit, complete with stiletto heels.

“Keep me out of your kinky little bedroom games, if you don’t mind, Pads,” Harry teased, wincing when he put a little too much pressure on his broken ankle. “God, how do women wear these things?”

“Usually not with shattered bones,” Remus replied.

“I see you have no comment on the kinky bedroom games.”

Sirius, breathless even after Harry had ended the spell, wheezed out a laugh and waved his wand, returning Harry’s outfit to normal. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, kiddo.” He looked down at himself, grimacing. There was a huge slash through the left side of his shirt, blood soaking into the fabric. “I really hope I can fix that. I like this shirt.”

Between the three of them, they got healed up and back to rights in short order — Sirius had made sure early on to teach Harry as many healing and medical spells as he could, insisting he’d end up looking like Mad-Eye if he didn’t learn how to magically stitch himself up.

“You’re getting good with your off-hand,” Sirius complimented, pulling the hem of his repaired shirt out to check for any holes or thin patches. “And that sneezing hex — Kingsley’s work?”

“Tonks,” Harry corrected, beaming with pride. “She say’s there’s not many people who can keep casting through sneezes that bad, and most don’t know the counter. You did, though.”

“I used to cast it on Snape during Potions’ classes,” Sirius explained unrepentantly.

Grimacing at a splatter of blood on the wall, unsure which of them it had come from, Harry cursed when his cleaning spell barely made a dent in the stain. “Bugger. I hope Kreacher can get that out.”

Kreacher appeared, startling all three of them, and surveyed the bloodstained wall with his arms folded. Then, he snapped his fingers, and the wall was pristine again. “Kreacher is a Black elf,” he declared solemnly, gazing up at Harry. “Kreacher is good at cleaning blood.”

He vanished once more. There was a long, awkward silence.

“Well,” Remus said eventually, clearing his throat. “Can’t fault that logic, I suppose.” He checked his watch. “The Weasleys will probably be home, soon.”

Sirius sidled up next to Harry, nudging his shoulder. “You good, pup?”

“Think so.” His head felt clearer, at any rate. There was less buzzing beneath his skin. “Thanks for this.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Sirius smiled at him. “Go take a shower, take a nap or something — we’ll get started on dinner in a bit. Gonna be a full house tonight.” He looked thrilled by the notion. Harry couldn’t blame him; Grimmauld had been getting a bit lonely, even with the three of them. And at least Harry could go out for a walk in the muggle world every now and then. Sirius sometimes came too as Padfoot, but it wasn’t the same as seeing the world from two legs.

“Sure you don’t want me to help cook?” Before the words could even finish leaving Harry’s mouth, he noticed the way Remus was looking at Sirius, and screwed up his nose. “Never mind. Not asking questions I don’t want the answer to. I’ll be in my room, don’t forget the silencing charms.”

“Atta boy!” Sirius said, thumping him on the back and giving him a hefty shove towards the door. Harry fled from the room before the two could start getting frisky.

That was another reason he didn’t duel Sirius that often. Depending on where they were at in the moon cycle, watching Sirius fight made Remus inexplicably horny, and now they weren’t trying to hide things from Harry they were not _remotely_ subtle about it.

There were some things Harry just did not want to see, ever.

He took a quick shower to wash away the sweat and blood that his spells hadn’t caught, then returned to his room, making himself comfortable with a muggle fiction book. He was making good progress through the little stack he’d bought himself — only Remus’ heavy-handed hints that he might be getting more for Christmas had stopped him from adding to his collection.

Time passed quickly while Harry was engrossed in his book. So quickly, he was surprised when someone knocked on his door, and a shock of red hair peeked in. “Hey, you,” George greeted, glancing around the room. “So this is your new bedroom, hmm? Love what you’ve done with the place.”

The redhead had only seen bits and pieces in the background of their mirror-calls. No longer was it a dreary room with dark green wallpaper and depressing decor; now it had calming blue-grey walls and a fluffy geometric-pattern rug on the floor.

“It’s home,” Harry declared happily, sitting up in bed and tucking his knees up. George perched on the other end of the twin bed. “How’s your dad?”

“Oh, up and laughing, trying to convince his healer to try out some weird muggle stuff on his wound,” George relayed with a chuckle. “He sends his love, and said to thank you for getting the alert up.”

“I’m glad he’s alright. When can he come home?”

“Not sure yet. There’s something in the venom that stops the wound from closing up, so they’re keeping an eye on it and trying to control the bleeding. I reckon once that stops, they’ll let him go.”

Harry’s stomach flopped queasily. He could still remember the feeling of that venom releasing from his fangs.

“You know what he was doing in the Ministry that late, don’t you,” George presumed, brown eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t even try to lie. “But I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let Ron know. He’s desperate to know what’s really going on. Seems all these years of being best mates with Harry Potter has given him a taste for ferreting out information.” There was something unreadable on his face, and it made Harry uneasy.

“What do you mean?”

George explained the Extendable Ears, and what they’d heard Moody say. He thought Harry was being possessed.

Harry’s stomach turned to lead. “Does Ron think that? Do you? That I— that I was possessed into attacking your dad?”

“I don’t,” George assured quickly. “I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea what’s going on in that head of yours. But you don’t seem scared, or confused, so I’d bet anything you _do_ know what’s going on.” Harry neither confirmed nor denied, but George took that as confirmation enough. “And you can’t tell me.”

“It’s too dangerous.” It was bad enough that the four of them — him, Sirius, Remus and Bill — knew about horcruxes. He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone else. Even if it left them thinking he was being possessed by Voldemort.

“You and your secrets, Potter,” George muttered fondly, eyes sparkling. “All these things you never talk about.”

Lightning shot up and down Harry’s spine, his pulse ticking up. “George, I— ”

“Don’t,” George shushed. “S’not a bad thing. You keep your secrets ’til you're ready. It’ll keep.” His hand lay on top of the duvet, inches from Harry’s foot. Then he chuckled. “Bit of a dramatic way to get me here early, I must admit,” he teased. “Having my dad attacked by a dirty great snake.”

Tension eased in Harry’s shoulders he hadn’t truly known was there — if George could joke about it, they were fine. Everything was fine. “What can I say?” Harry shot back, grinning. “I missed you.”

“Charmer,” George said, winking. “Anyway, I came up here for a reason, before you distracted me. Dinner’s ready.” He stood, then held out a hand. “You coming?”

Harry took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He was barely inches from George, and the tall redhead squeezed Harry’s hand, let go, then ducked down to kiss him on the cheek. When he pulled back, they were both blushing. “Thanks for saving my dad, Harry.”

“Anytime,” came Harry’s breathless reply.

.-.-.-.

Now that everyone had seen for themselves that Mr Weasley was out of the woods, the house was far more relaxed — the Hogwarts students revelling in having skipped out several days early.

“I should’ve left a note for Hermione,” Ron fretted, stabbing into a yorkshire pudding. “She’ll be losing her mind not to know where we all went in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sure McGonagall or someone will have told her,” Ginny assured. Then she grinned devilishly. “Or are you just sad you didn’t get to say a proper goodbye?”

Ron went beet red, and Harry hid a snicker behind his cup. “Still no progress there, then?” he asked under his breath, glancing sideways at George. George shook his head.

“Not even close. Pretty sure they’re fighting more than ever, without you around as buffer.” He paused, eyeing his little brother contemplatively. “Unless that’s just their _thing_.”

“Ew, gross,” Harry complained.

Remus had gone all-out and made dessert, pulling out an apple and blackberry pie once the table was cleared of their main. “Will you get the ice cream, cub?” he asked. Harry nodded, summoning the frozen treat from the pantry. Ron and Ginny both blinked at him.

“Forgot you could do that, mate,” Ron remarked. Harry said nothing, wondering what Ron might have said had he watched Harry’s duel earlier.

“Of course, Arthur won’t be home by Christmas,” Mrs Weasley was telling Sirius, further down the table. “But with any luck, we’ll have him back by New Year’s. Thanks again ever so much for putting us up for the holidays — it’s so easy to get to the hospital from here!”

It was a far cry from the grudging acceptance she’d had back when they had originally decided to host Christmas at Grimmauld, when Harry refused to be without his godfathers. But Sirius graciously didn’t say anything, patting her on the arm. “We’re happy to have you here, Molly! The more the merrier.”

After dinner, they all drifted up to the living room, which was actually liveable now that Sirius, Remus and Harry had spent some time redecorating, and Kreacher had stopped fighting them about it.

“You know you’re not possessed by Voldemort, don’t you, Harry?” Ginny asked bluntly, once they were all sat down in front of the fire. “I would know if you were. I remember what it was like.” Ron made a sort of strangled noise.

“I know, Gin,” Harry assured. “But I’m glad you lot don’t agree with Mad-Eye.”

To the ex-auror’s credit, he didn’t seem particularly _bothered_ by the prospect of Harry being possessed. He’d just told him to stay vigilant, and not to get rusty over the holidays.

“Glad that’s settled, then,” Fred declared, clapping his hands together. “Exploding Snap, anyone?”


	15. Chapter 15

To everyone’s surprise, Hermione showed up around six o’clock the next evening, ringing the doorbell and setting off Mrs Black’s portrait. “I told my parents that everyone else was staying at school to study for their OWLs,” she declared, unwinding her scarf from her neck. “They were sad I’d miss skiing, but they understood. Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you! You’re looking really well!” She hugged him tight, giving him a searching once-over. Harry grinned.

“Good to see you too, Hermione.” Indeed, it had been strange to have all the Weasleys back but not her.

They gathered in the living room for Hermione to regale them all with Umbridge’s reaction to all the Weasley children leaving in the middle of the night. “She’s really awful, Harry,” the dark-skinned witch complained. “We haven’t used a single spell in Defence class all term!”

“I hear that’s not stopped you, though,” he teased. “Tell me more about this _study group_ of yours.”

She blushed, but launched into an explanation, once she was sure none of the adults were nearby to listen at the door. “Dobby helped us find a place to practice, it’s really fascinating!” she told him, eyes bright. “It’s called the Room of Requirement. Oh, and Dobby misses you, by the way.”

“I miss him, too.” Harry thought sadly of the little elf. “I’ll buy him some socks or something, if you’ll give him them when you go back?”

_That_ prompted Hermione to tell him all about her progress with S.P.E.W, knitting hats to free the Hogwarts house elves. Harry wasn’t sure if that was exactly _progress_ , but at the wide-eyed look on Ron’s face he wisely kept his mouth shut.

As glad as he was to have the house full of people for Christmas, and to see his friends in person again, it was weird, too. Hermione and Ron seemed desperate to tell him about every little thing he’d missed in the last few months at school — even things he wouldn’t have cared about if he _had_ been there. He appreciated their thoughts on Umbridge, and their tales of the study group they’d formed — _Dumbledore’s Army_ , they had called it, which seemed like they were just _begging_ for Umbridge to discover it and throw a fit. He even enjoyed Ron’s recounting of his quidditch progress, morose as it was; he still hadn’t recovered his confidence after the Slytherin match, even after Angelina had refused to let him quit the team.

But when it came to learning who Lavender Brown had been caught snogging in the Charms corridor, or that some Slytherin seventh year had broken off his betrothal with a Ravenclaw fifth year and his parents were furious, Harry had to wonder. “Hermione, that’s great and all, but unless you’re telling me this because you’re the reason that Slytherin dumped his betrothed, I don’t actually care.”

Hermione blushed brightly. Beside her, Ron snorted. “I just don’t want you to feel left out,” she said plaintively. Then, to Harry’s horror, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a truly terrifying mountain of parchment. “Here, look; I’ve copied all my notes for you, and all the DA notes too.”

He had never been more relieved for Mrs Weasley to come in and chivvy them all up to bed. Ginny sniggered silently at the look on his face when he picked up the stack of notes Hermione had thrust upon him.

“I’ve got a present for you too, Harry,” the redhead volunteered, digging into her pocket. “Here, look. My friend Luna took them — she’s in Ravenclaw. It was easier than trying to explain to Colin what I wanted pictures of. Sorry I couldn’t get pictures of what happened after the match — I may or may not have hexed him so bad he didn’t come out of his dorm for three days? Oops.”

She passed over three slightly crumpled wizarding photographs; they documented, second-by-second, the exact moment Ginny had beat Draco Malfoy to the snitch. And the look on Malfoy’s face, when he realised what had happened. Harry beamed at her.

“Brilliant, Gin!”

The last picture had Malfoy pulling his broom to a halt, looking the strangest mix of furious and embarrassed, while Ginny whizzed past him clutching the snitch victoriously. If he wasn’t mistaken, there were tears in the corner of the blond’s eyes.

Harry was going to put it on his wall.

.-.-.

Visiting Mr Weasley became a daily journey for all those who were allowed out of the house without causing alarm. Ron looked like he was going to protest every time they left Harry behind, but Harry didn’t mind; truthfully, he was glad for the peace and quiet, just for a couple of hours.

He was surprised when, the day before Christmas, he walked into the kitchen expecting it to be empty, only to find Bill in there talking to Sirius. Remus had gone to visit Mr Weasley — and, he’d confided to Harry quietly, to have a chat with the poor bloke in the same ward who’d been bitten by a werewolf on the last moon.

“I thought you’d be at the hospital with the others,” Harry greeted curiously. Bill shook his head.

“Nah, I’ll go this afternoon; I’ve only got a short lunch break.”

“Oh. Then do you mind waiting a minute? I’ve got a Christmas present for Fleur — and yours, of course, but I figured you’d be by sometime tomorrow.”

“I actually came here to talk to you, if you’re not busy,” Bill told him. “I’ll come up with you.”

Harry’s expression grew serious, and he nodded, turning on his heel and leading Bill up the stairs to his room. The curse breaker shut the door behind himself and began to ward it, so Harry took the chance to dig Fleur’s present out from the bottom of his wardrobe, as well as the card he’d written for Gabrielle.

“So, what’s the matter?” he asked, brow furrowed. Bill fiddled with his fang earring.

“Well, I’ve got good news, bad news, and sort-of okay-ish news,” he declared.

“Right. Bad news first, I suppose?” Harry’s heart was in his throat, wondering what Bill might have come across in his research.

“Bad news is, your scar is almost definitely a horcrux,” Bill told him bluntly. “But the good news is, there’s supposed to be a ritual to anchor a horcrux properly once it’s in its chosen vessel — if Voldemort got hit by the killing curse, he couldn’t have completed that ritual, so the likelihood is that it’s just a sort of splinter-horcrux in your scar. Part of his soul — that much is obvious, after you saw Dad get attacked — but it’s a small part, and it’s not properly anchored. There’s a purging potion that my team healer reckons will get it all out of your system.”

Harry blinked, digesting the information. “That’s… better than I anticipated, actually.” After how vivid the vision was, he’d been anticipating the worst. A potion sounded like a pretty simple fix. “And the okay-ish news?”

“This is where it gets a bit complicated.” Bill perched on the edge of the desk, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Gringotts has some record of horcruxes, but because of the nature of the magic, they’re a little spotty and held behind some serious security. Luckily, I’m in a senior enough team that I can get through most of that security, but I still had to tell a couple of goblins what I was after. But like I told you, they hate pureblood supremacists, so it’s fine. Anyway, one of the older blokes on my team spent some time a while back working in Germany in this ancient dark castle, had some crypts and the like all connected to it. He’s seen it all, so I asked him about the horcrux situation, and he gave me this diary that contained a really, really old ritual. It was written by this dark lord some ten or twelve centuries ago, some bloke who made three horcruxes when he was in the height of his power — then as he got older, he started to regret what he’d done in splitting his soul. Only, he’d hidden his horcruxes so well he couldn’t actually find them again.” Here, Bill’s lips quirked, and Harry snorted.

“Is it a locating spell?” he asked hopefully. Bill shook his head.

“Not quite. He didn’t want to destroy them, see; he wanted to reverse them. So this evil genius dark lord decides to create a ritual that he intends will reunite all the shards of his soul within his body, leaving him mortal but back to how powerful he once was.”

“We don’t want Voldemort mortal but more powerful, Bill,” Harry pointed out in alarm. “He’s powerful enough as it is.”

“Exactly. Which is why it’s a good thing this Germanic bloke’s ritual couldn’t stitch the soul pieces back, and they just moved on to— wherever evil soul pieces go, I guess, the writings weren’t clear on that part.”

Harry blinked. “So, let me see if I understand this. You found a ritual that can make all the pieces of his soul just… go away? What’s the catch?” If it was that perfect, the goblins would have done it by now, prophecy and Harry Potter be damned.

“The catch,” Bill drawled, “is that the ritual can only be performed by a living being containing part of the soul the ritual is to be focused on.”

Harry’s heart sank. “So we have to trick Voldemort into performing this ritual, somehow?” That was never going to happen. Even if they could frame it as some sort of power-boosting ritual, it would take time and more finesse than they probably had to make it something the Dark Lord trusted. Maybe they could get Snape to offer it to him?

“Here I thought you were smart, Potter,” Bill teased, not looking as frustrated as Harry expected by the news. “Think — living being containing part of the soul. What did I just tell you was lodged in that scar of yours?”

Bill’s grin widened when Harry froze. The dark-haired teen looked up at him, hardly daring to believe it could be _that_ perfect. “I— will that work? You said it was a splinter-horcrux. Is it anchored enough for me to do the ritual?”

“Unconfirmed,” Bill admitted. “We’re still doing the research on that. It might not have been anchored, but it’s been floating around up there for fourteen years now. It’s probably twined pretty strongly with your own magical core.”

Harry didn’t really like the sound of that. “Will that make it difficult for the purging potion to remove?” Was it going to rip out his magic? Or worse, make it possible for Voldemort to get a tighter hold on him?

“Goblins say probably not, but they’d like to do some more studying first. It’s early days, and there’s a lot more testing and theorising we need to do before we can lay down any proper magic, but… in theory, you should be able to use the ritual to disperse all his errant soul pieces without having to know where they are, then take the purging potion to get rid of the bit in you, and it’ll just be Voldemort. Mortal as any of the rest of us.”

The words settled in Harry’s mind; he could hardly believe it was possible, that they could be so close to finding a way. “Wow,” he murmured. “Bill, that’s— that’s brilliant.” To think, this knowledge could have been found months, even years ago if Dumbledore had shared his suspicions about horcruxes with the Order. Presuming the headmaster had those suspicions, of course — which Harry was almost positive he did.

“It’s progress,” Bill agreed. “We’re going to keep working on it after Christmas. And— once we figure it out, I don’t think we should do the ritual until you’re ready to, y’know, fight him. There’s no guarantee he won’t notice the rest of his soul disappearing.” Then, Bill glanced sideways. “Also, quite frankly, I’d rather you not take the purging potion until you absolutely have to. Those visions of yours saved Dad’s life.”

“We don’t know if I’ll ever have another that useful,” Harry pointed out, not wanting anyone to think he was some kind of early warning system for Voldemort attacks. It was very likely that Voldemort had let him see that intentionally, forced him into the snake’s mind to make him watch Arthur Weasley die. If Harry had been back at his relatives’ like everyone thought he was, cut off from the magical world… Mr Weasley wouldn’t have survived the time it would have taken for Hedwig to fly from Surrey to Hogwarts.

“But there’s a chance you might,” Bill retorted. “Look, Harry, I know it’s easy for me to say; I’m not the one being forced into Voldemort’s head when I sleep. But… strategically, it’s an advantage you shouldn’t give up. And you can’t, at least, until the ritual has been completed.”

“I know. It’s fine, really.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, smiling ruefully. “Like you said, it’s been knocking around in there for fourteen years. A few more months won’t hurt.”

“We’ll figure it out, Harry,” Bill vowed. “As quickly as we can. And when you’re ready… it looks like we have a way to end all this.”

They did. And it was far more than they’d have if Harry hadn’t been expelled.

Maybe everything did happen for a reason.

.-.-.

Christmas morning dawned bright and early, with a suffocatingly huge mountain of presents at the bottom of Harry’s bed. Harry groaned at the sight of them all, cheeks flushing pink. “Damn it, Padfoot,” he muttered to himself, inordinately glad he was no longer sharing a room with Ron. This was possibly more presents than even _Dudley_ got.

It made something warm in Harry’s chest, something that he thought had died long ago — the little boy in his cupboard, watching his cousin tear open present after present under the Christmas tree, imagining wistfully a day where he might have someone who cared about him enough to buy him that many things.

He started to work through the mountain, finding everything from new robes to books to a stack of muggle CDs and a walkman, several joke presents, a gay sex guide that made Harry’s face flame bright red, and a brand new album full of pictures of his parents and the Marauders growing up, all with Peter Pettigrew skilfully cut out of them. Every single present had the same tag - ‘ _To Harry. Merry Christmas, love Padfoot and Moony’_.

Harry had the ridiculous urge to save all the tags to put in the photo album, as a reminder to that little boy in the cupboard that he was loved.

Underneath all the presents from his godfathers, Harry found the presents from the rest of his friends — the Weasleys and Hermione; a fanged wallet from Hagrid with a long letter about how much he missed Harry and he hoped he was doing okay; Moody and Tonks and Kingsley; Fleur and Bill; even Dobby had sent him a painting he’d done, which was an… interesting artistic interpretation of Harry himself.

There was a loud crack, and Harry looked up from the ocean of wrapping paper surrounding him to see a grinning redhead in a bright purple knitted jumper, a large orange F on the front.

“Merry Christmas, George,” he greeted, laughing. The redhead pouted.

“Oi, not fair, see!” He pointed at the letter on his chest. “You’re not supposed to be able to tell.”

“You’ll have to try better than that.” Harry had been correctly telling the twins apart since before his second year.

George rolled his eyes, surveying the scene in front of him. “Bloody hell, Harry. Sirius went a bit overboard, hmm?”

“Just a bit.” With a wave of his hand, all the wrapping paper screwed up into a large ball, then vanished. Not the tags, though. He was keeping those.

That still left him with a massive pile of presents, which he attempted to get into some kind of organised state. Laughing, George waved his wand to lift some of them aside. When he shifted a robe, it revealed the gay sex book lodged beneath. George’s face went as red as his hair. “Well, then,” he said, and Harry hurried to jam the book under a different pile of presents. “That’ll be… informative, for you.” The prankster cleared his throat, glancing away. Mentally, Harry cursed his godfathers.

Luckily, George quickly pulled himself together, regaining his composure with a half-smile. “You’ll want to avoid going downstairs for a bit. Mum’s crying again. Percy sent his jumper back, not even a note.”

Harry scowled. “Prick.”

“Yup. But Moony’s cheering her up, best to give her a bit before heading down to breakfast. Fred’s warning Ron.” At last, there was a small clear space on the bed, and George plonked himself down on it, grinning. “Merry Christmas.” His voice went soft and slightly husky, and a shiver ran up Harry’s spine.

“Merry Christmas,” he repeated. “Thanks for the prank stuff. I’m gonna get Sirius _so good_ ,” he declared, smirking at the thought of his box of prototype Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products.

“Only the best for our silent investor,” George said, winking. “Thanks for the voucher, we’re low on just about everything these days. Skiving Snackboxes are flying off the shelves.” Harry had given the twins a voucher to Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary. He’d thought about getting something special for George, but he hadn’t been able to think of the perfect thing — and it still felt too soon to tip his hand like that. Even though George knew, he _had_ to know, and each day was getting harder and harder to stay in the boy’s orbit without just giving in. Even now, having George sat on his bed, his knee pressed against Harry’s hip… it was torture. “Your jumper looks great.”

This year Mrs Weasley had knitted a beautiful blue-grey jumper, a similar colour to the walls of his bedroom, with a black paw print and a crescent moon on the left breast. Harry had almost cried when he saw it, heart warmed by her acceptance of his new family. “Your mum’s brilliant,” he agreed. “Does she ever do you two ones without your initials on them?”

“Hasn’t yet,” George chirped. “It started as a joke so people could tell us apart, and I think she figured out how much we like wearing the wrong ones just to be confusing. Maybe when we stop growing she’ll mix it up a bit, but for now we’re due a new one every year anyway.” Indeed, the twins hadn’t stopped growing since Harry had known them. And Harry may or may not own a jumper with a G on it from two years ago, tucked away in his dresser. He’d never worn it in front of anyone, but… it was nice to have. “Unfortunately, _some people_ have to ruin our fun and spot the difference,” George teased, poking Harry in the chest.

“Be a bit weird by this point if I couldn’t,” Harry retorted, coming dangerously close to mentioning the things they Did Not Mention. George eyed him over, making his pulse jump.

“Just a bit. Glad I don’t have to worry about that.” He was using that husky voice again. Harry was _so_ tempted to lean in to him.

“Don’t think there’s much you do have to worry about, there,” the dark-haired boy confessed. “Just timing.”

“Oh, pesky timing,” George sighed forlornly, pressing a hand to his chest like a lovesick Shakespearean character. “How cruel the sands of time can be.”

Harry snickered, glad George knew to diffuse the situation before one of them crossed a line. Glad the redhead was in agreement with him about things.

“What the bloody hell is that?” George had spotted Dobby’s painting, and held it up with a critical gaze. “Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.”

“It’s me, apparently. Dobby did it.”

“And what a handsome black-eyed gibbon you are,” George corrected swiftly, winking. Harry laughed, and there was a knock on the door, before Ron stuck his head through.

“Merry Christmas, mate! You coming down for breakfast?” He didn’t bat an eyelash at George’s presence, or the lack of distance between them. “Oh, George warning you about Mum? Ginny said she’s done crying now.”

“Right. Great. Let me get dressed, I’ll meet you down there,” Harry assured. “Merry Christmas!”

Ron gave him a thumbs up, then shut the door, and as his footsteps faded away George burst out laughing.

“Merlin’s balls my brother is thick,” he said, shaking his head in despair. “Poor bloody Hermione.”

“I’m so glad you’re not all that blind,” Harry agreed. “Think where we’d be then.” George nodded vehemently. It wasn’t as painful, waiting, when they both knew what was at stake. “Piss off so I can get dressed, then,” he demanded playfully. George’s eyes darkened, and he winked.

“Oh, one day,” he drawled huskily, patting Harry’s thigh. Then he apparated away, leaving Harry alone, with a little extra Christmas present he was going to need to take care of before making himself presentable at breakfast. Harry sent a locking and silencing spell at his door, wondering if it was just his imagination, hearing familiar laughter ring quietly in the back of his head.

One day, indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

The Weasleys and Hermione went to visit Mr Weasley after Christmas breakfast, and Harry sent along his present for the man; a beginner’s circuitboard set he’d found in a muggle shop, complete with screwdrivers. Hopefully, that would keep him entertained while he was still recovering.

With them gone, Harry got the experience of his first Christmas day with Sirius and Remus. Sirius put a vinyl of muggle Christmas songs on his record player in the living room, and they drank hot chocolate and ate Fleamont Potter’s white chocolate almond snowflake biscuits, Remus with his nose already buried in the book of muggle mythical creatures Harry had bought him, while Sirius called him a nerd and threw Bertie Botts’ beans at him, demanding kisses.

The dog animagus was more joyful than Harry had ever seen him, singing Christmas songs and dragging both Remus and Harry up to dance with him. It made Harry wonder if Sirius had started drinking early, but Remus assured him the man was stone cold sober — just an overgrown child. Every time Harry teased his godfather, he was threatened with even more Christmas presents.

“I don’t think that’s how that’s supposed to work, y’know,” Harry commented. Sirius stuck his tongue out.

“Don’t care. Quit being a brat or I’ll buy you more things, and you can’t stop me.”

The spirit of the season had even warmed Sirius’ heart towards Kreacher — in cleaning out his father’s old desk in the study, he’d found a picture of Regulus as a young boy, and had it framed for the house elf. Kreacher’s happy sobs could still be heard drifting up from the kitchen whenever the music went quiet.

“I hope he stops crying before Hermione gets back, or she’ll think I’ve beaten him,” Sirius muttered dryly.

The crowd of Weasleys and Hermione returned while Harry, Remus and Sirius were preparing the most enormous Christmas dinner Harry had ever seen outside Hogwarts. They brought Bill with them, and he waved at Harry, grinning. “Merry Christmas. Cheers for that book, mate!” Harry had bought Bill a muggle book on Egyptian history. Almost all the presents he’d bought people were muggle, honestly; he didn’t have much of a choice, otherwise. Anyone who got an owl order from Harry Potter would go straight to the Prophet, and everyone who he might have asked to go shopping for him was either busy or not welcome in most of Diagon’s shops.

“Glad you like it. The wardstone is brilliant, thanks!” According to the note, Bill and Fleur had enchanted it themselves — it fit on a necklace, and if he wore it it would make all wizarding pictures of him come out blurry and unusable.

“Why don’t you let Mum take over chopping those carrots, mate,” Fred suggested, sidling over to Harry. “She could use a bit of an outlet.”

Behind them, Mrs Weasley harrumphed.

“Watch your cheek, young man.” Then she paused, eyeing the knife in Harry’s hand. “Oh, give that here, Harry, dear. Thank you for Arthur’s present, he’s delighted.”

Harry passed her the knife, backing away to stand between the twins. “Do I want to know?” he asked under his breath, The pair shared an amused look.

“Dad let his healer experiment with muggle healing methods. Stitches,” George clarified quietly.

“It didn’t go well,” Fred finished. “Mum’s not impressed.”

Harry winced — yeah, he’d let her blow off some steam on the vegetables, then.

With ‘the kids’ back, that had ‘the adults’ shooing them all out of the kitchen to go play until dinner was ready. Harry was incredibly amused to see twenty-five year old Bill Weasley still counted among the kids.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny sat with Harry playing with Ginny’s new gobstones set, and they told him about their trip up to the Janus Thickey ward. “I didn’t know Neville’s parents were there,” Ron whispered. “Poor guy.”

“I did.” Harry had known since last year, when Dumbledore had revealed what Barty Crouch Jr had been arrested for. “How’s Neville doing? I wanted to write to him but I wasn’t sure if he’d stayed at Hogwarts.” Hermione hadn’t been completely lying when she’d told her parents a lot of fifth years stayed behind to study.

“He’s okay. He’s doing really well in the DA,” Ginny told him, smiling with pride. “He misses you. I think he’d love to hear from you.”

Harry made a mental note to write to the other boy over the holidays, now he knew there was no chance of Umbridge intercepting.

Dinner was a lively affair, both the Marauders and the twins on fine form with their joke-telling — though the food was all prank-free, no one willing to risk the wrath of Molly Weasley on Christmas. There was an obvious gap in the gathering where Mr Weasley was missing, but he seemed to be on the road to recovery, so that didn’t spoil the joy overmuch. Looking around the table, seeing all his friends and with Sirius and Remus beaming so widely, Harry didn’t think he’d ever been happier. This was better than all his Christmases at Hogwarts combined.

After dinner, and dessert, when everyone moved into the living room to loosen off their belts and groan contentedly, Harry sprawled on the floor with his back against Sirius’ legs where the animagus sat on the sofa, Remus’ feet tucked under his thigh. The radio was on quietly in the background, but he was too food-dazed to pay attention to it. Instead he just basked in the moment, eyes half-shut, Sirius’ hand playing absently with his shaggy hair. He really needed to remember to get Ginny to cut it before she went back to Hogwarts.

For once, Harry was glad he’d been expelled. He’d hate to think how Sirius might have handled the last few months by himself in the house — especially since he’d only asked Remus to move in because of Harry. His future might be a bit precarious, and he might be missing out on a lot at school; but he had gained this, and it was the best feeling in the world.

.-.-.-.-.

Unfortunately, the closer it drew to the end of the holidays, the more Ron and Hermione seemed to remember they’d have to say goodbye to Harry and go back to Hogwarts very soon. They stuck to his sides like limpets, trying to cram a whole school year’s worth of time together into the last ten days they had. There was no way they’d be leaving the castle at Easter, with their exams so close.

“The DA would be so much better if you were still at school, Harry,” Hermione told him one afternoon, when she was trying to work on her lesson plans for the study group. “You’ve always been the best at Defence. I bet you’d be a fantastic teacher.”

“Umbridge would be trying twice as hard to catch you if I was involved,” Harry pointed out ruefully. “She hates me.”

“You haven’t seen the Room of Requirement, mate,” Ron replied. “She’ll never catch us in there.”

Harry had to admit, he was intrigued by the room they’d described. He was pretty sure it was the same one Dumbledore had mentioned at the Yule Ball; the one filled with chamber pots.

“Do you know if Professor Dumbledore has made any progress in trying to get your expulsion overturned?” Hermione asked. “It would be brilliant if you could come back soon.”

“Hermione…” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Dumbledore’s not trying to get it overturned, and I haven’t asked him to.”

Her brown eyes went wide. “What?”

“Mate,” Ron said, chuckling awkwardly. “You have to come back. It’s _Hogwarts_.”

“I know, and I do miss it. I miss you,” Harry admitted. “But… I like being here. Yeah, it’s a bit boring, hardly ever leaving the house. But I have the muggle world when I really need to get out. And I can use my magic how I like now, even if it means I don’t have my wand.” There were still times, especially when he just woke up out of a vision, where he scrambled for his wand automatically and was hit with the loss all over again. “I’m learning loads of interesting stuff. Useful stuff. Things I’ll need when I fight Voldemort.” He hadn’t told his friends about the horcruxes. He didn’t want to worry them.

“But… you’re fifteen. Surely you don’t want to fight him any time soon?” Ron asked. Harry shrugged.

“I’ve seen the Prophet.” They were trying to cover it up, but the obituaries page spoke for itself. “The sooner I fight him, the fewer people die.”

“But you said the next time you fight him, that’ll be the end.” Hermione’s voice wobbled. “You can’t be ready for that, Harry.”

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’m not as far off as you probably think I am.”

“Why can’t you teach us what you’ve been learning? We’ll fight with you,” Ron said determinedly. Harry shook his head.

“It’s not that simple. You can’t exactly practice here, and it’s not a list of spells you want to be taking back to school with you, with Umbridge about.”

“It’s not… Harry, are you learning dark magic?” Hermione whispered in shock.

“Some. Can’t expect the Death Eaters to play fair.” He was echoing Mad-Eye’s words. “But even the stuff that’s not isn’t exactly on the OWL exams.”

“I wish I didn’t have to take the bloody OWL exams,” Ron muttered. “I bet you haven’t brewed a potion in _months_.”

“I’ve brewed some,” Harry said. Healing potions and the like. “I’m thinking about learning to brew the Wolfsbane for Remus, but I’d have to get Snape to teach me, and I don’t have anything I can trade him for it yet.” Severus Snape would not offer up his services freely, especially not to Harry Potter. Ron looked a bit green around the gills.

“You’d _ask_ Snape to teach you? Are you mad? You can’t miss his lessons that badly!”

No, Harry didn’t miss Snape’s Potions’ class. But he didn’t hate brewing as much as he thought he had, in a room full of Slytherins who were constantly trying to make him fail. And if it was to help Remus, all the better.

“But Harry… if you don’t come back and take your OWLs, how will you get a job?” Hermione asked in concern. “I’ve been looking through the careers advice pamphlets Professor McGonagall gave us, and there isn’t a single thing in there that doesn’t require at least a basic set of passing OWL grades.”

Harry doubted Hermione would react too well to the knowledge that once he turned seventeen and got his full inheritance, he wouldn’t need to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to. That probably wasn’t the sort of answer she was going for.

“I’ll figure something out. Once I kill Voldemort, whoever becomes Minister after Fudge will probably let me get a wand again. I can always take exams at the Ministry then.” It would be weird, using a wand again. He wasn’t sure he could actually do it.

“What do you mean, whoever’s Minister after Fudge?” Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I mean there’s no way in hell Fudge will stay in office the way he’s been handling this,” Harry retorted. “Either Voldemort will kill him, or once the truth comes out he’ll be laughed into retirement. Even if I have to do it myself.” Fudge had endangered so many lives with his refusal to admit the truth. Harry wouldn’t let him stay Minister, ready to blunder through the next crisis the wizarding world faced. “Look, guys, I know it’s hard for you to imagine — but I’m not exactly on the traditional educational path anymore. That doesn’t mean I’ll never get there.” He had plans with Fleur that were slowly getting into motion, plans that could change everything. “I’m young, and wizards live ages. People are homeschooled all the time and take exams at any stage in their life. I’ve just got— other priorities, y’know?”

“Do you’ll reckon they’ll let you be an auror? Since you’ve been training with Kingsley and all them?” Ron sounded hopeful. Harry grimaced — it was something he’d thought about. All three of his auror tutors were firmly of the opinion that Harry had outclassed their trainees weeks ago. If the Ministry came under new management, Harry knew Kingsley would make it happen in a second if Harry said something about wanting to be an auror.

But he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life chasing dark wizards.

“Who knows, mate,” he said instead.

“That would be so cool, if we could go through auror training together. We could be partners!” Ron said eagerly, eyes lighting up. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d already done most of the auror training program. The non-bureaucratic bits, at least.

That was another thing about being an auror. Bloody paperwork.

“Maybe.” He kept his tone noncommittal. He didn’t want to break his friends’ hearts. “I’ll figure out the Voldemort situation, first. Might take me a bit.” He liked to think he’d be done before his friends graduated, especially with the ritual Bill and his team had found, but… the course of being Harry Potter never did run smooth. “Just— just don’t be disappointed if things don’t work out the way you expect, y’know?” They weren’t even considering the likelihood of him dying during the fight with Voldemort. He appreciated their confidence, and didn’t like thinking about it himself, but… he was aware of the possibility.

“I suppose,” Hermione murmured, after a long period of silence, “I always thought the three of us would stick together, y’know? Through everything. Exams, graduation, everything else… I thought we’d all face it together.”

Harry reached out, squeezing her hand. “Hey, look, just because I’m not at school doesn’t mean you’re not still stuck with me,” he told her, grinning lightly. “I’m just taking a different path. Eventually we’ll all be in the same sort of place.” Once the war was over, and they were graduated, and the three of them were figuring out adult life and their jobs and everything else it entailed. “I’ll still be there. And look at it this way; once the curse on the DADA position hits Umbridge, you’ll get someone less shitty next year and we can write each other all the time.”

Hermione couldn’t hold back her laugh, even as she gave him a scolding look. “The position isn’t actually cursed, Harry.”

“Uh, five professors in five years says otherwise,” he retorted. Ron sniggered. “I feel out of the loop, too, you guys. But that doesn’t mean I need to hear about every little piece of gossip from the castle. If I could write to you, I wouldn’t want to know about that. I’d want to know how your week’s going, and which classes are giving you too much homework, and what sort of rulebreaking shenanigans you’re getting up to without me. Whether you’ve been snogging anyone.” Both of them blushed. “Ginny told me all about that Michael Corner bloke of hers.” Mostly, from telling him how long it had taken her to convince Michael that she didn’t secretly fancy Harry.

Typically, mentioning him made Ron scowl. “Needs to get his bloody hands off my sister,” he muttered. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry snorted.

“See, _that’s_ the type of stuff you’d be writing me about,” he said. “Not all that other crap. Just… take it easy on the info, yeah?”

“So… so you don’t want my revision notes?” Hermione sniffed.

“No offence, Hermione, but no, I really, really don’t.” She thwacked him on the arm, biting her lip to stop laughing through her put-out expression.

.-.-.-.

After that conversation, things got better, but it was still hard for Harry to get used to being surrounded by people again. He thought Remus was feeling it, too; the werewolf was spending more and more time up in his and Sirius’ room, claiming full-moon exhaustion. Harry, on the other hand, preferred the library. His room was the first place people would look for him, and Ron was so incredibly allergic to the concept of studying over Christmas that he refused to set foot in the library, or let Hermione hole up in there.

Sometimes he would hang out in the twins’ room, help them out with spells and things for their products or just sit and watch them work their genius — or their explosions, depending on the day. But even that didn’t deter Ron every time.

So Harry would make an excuse about going to find Sirius, or check on Remus, and he’d sneak away to his favourite sofa in the library to listen to the walkman Sirius had modified to run on magic, or read his books, or just sit in silence for a while.

True to his word, Remus had got him a whole bunch more muggle books for Christmas, including several older fantasy works he’d never heard of. A lot of them were passed on from Remus’ collection itself, dog-eared and care-worn and some with passages underlined or little notes in the margins from a teenage Remus. A couple, Harry had been awed to find, had come from his mother’s book collection, salvaged by Remus after her death, or lent to him and forgotten about before they could be returned. These ones never left his room, sat in pride of place on his bookshelf, where sometimes he would get them out just to stare at the neat ‘ _Property of Lily Evans’_ written on the inside cover.

He was reading one of Remus’ favourites, a book about an angel and a demon who misplaced the Antichrist, when he heard the creak of the door.

“Your hiding is getting predictable,” George said by way of greeting. Harry let his book drop to his chest, smiling.

“Funny, you’re the only one who ever finds me,” he returned. That made George grin — he shifted Harry’s feet off the end of the sofa, sitting down and pulling the sock-clad appendages back into his lap. “You need me for something?”

“Nah. Just wanted to sit a while. You can keep reading if you like,” George offered. Harry shook his head. He had more interesting things to do, now.

“You started packing yet?” Harry asked, knowing Mrs Weasley had begun gently reminding her children about their impending return to Scotland. George’s expression turned mulish.

“Not even close. Thought about just not bothering. Hard to want to go back when Umbridge is running the place.”

“But you have to,” Harry sighed.

“Do I?” George retorted with an eyebrow raised. Harry’s heart ached. He wanted so badly to say no, George didn’t; he could say fuck school and hang out with Harry instead.

“At least ’til you get premises.” It would be hard to keep finding good reasons after that, but Harry was determined to try.

George huffed. “You’re no fun, Potter,” he declared. “You’re supposed to tell me to become a drop-out like you.”

“Am I, now?” Harry tried for teasing, but couldn’t hold it. “You know I can’t ask that of you, George. Either of you.”

“Wish you would,” George muttered. “I’d do it if you did. In a heartbeat.”

“I know.” And that’s exactly why Harry wouldn’t ask. “Just think of all the things you can torment Umbridge with once you get back. All the new stuff you’ve made in the last couple of weeks.”

That did bring a grin to George’s face, but it was brief. The redhead sighed, running a hand through his much shorter hair. Ginny had been offering haircuts all day, after Harry had brought it up. He looked good, his jawline sharper, even with a hint of stubble dusting his cheeks. Harry’s nerves sparked with want.

“Reckon it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for her,” George admitted. “But all her _Educational Decrees_ , and the way she talks about you — the only saving grace is I know you’re well shot of her. She can’t hurt you.” He rested a hand on Harry’s ankle, thumb absently stroking the bare skin. When he glanced up at Harry, his brown eyes were dark. “I know we don’t talk about it. We’ve come close, but I won’t. Not even now. I just…” His lips quirked. “Is it okay for me to say that I hope one day is soon?”

Right then, right there, Harry almost gave in. Only the thought of having to say goodbye to George again in a few days reminded him of how much worse it would feel it he did. “Only if it’s okay for me to say me, too.”

George smiled, and it broke Harry’s heart a little bit. Then, all of a sudden, the taller boy was stretching out across the sofa, leaning towards Harry. “George,” Harry said in alarm, freezing. George hushed him.

“Relax, I said I wouldn’t. All above board, here.” Slowly, he laid down, shifting until his head rested on Harry’s chest, his body wedged between Harry’s and the back of the sofa. Harry was sure George could hear his heart practically jumping out of his ribcage. Instinctively, he moved to get comfortable; one hand rested on George’s hip, while the other gave into a years-long urge and sank into the fiery red hair. It was just as soft as he’d imagined. “There we go,” George breathed, his eyes falling half-shut. “S’Christmas. Think of it as a belated present.”

“For you or for me?” Harry asked, one eyebrow raised. George snorted.

“Either. Both.” He turned his nose into the soft material of Harry’s sweatshirt. “Just shut up and cuddle me, Potter.”

It was a completely innocent embrace. Platonic, almost brotherly. But Harry doubted George would lie down like this with any of his brothers, except perhaps Fred. The redhead brought a hand up to rest on Harry’s chest, beside his face, over Harry’s heart. Harry played with the short strands of hair at the back of George’s neck, feeling him stretch into it like a cat.

It wasn’t crossing any lines. Bending them a bit, maybe. But it wasn’t anything they couldn’t turn back from, wouldn’t hate to lose once George went back to school for the next six months.

It was perfect.


	17. Chapter 17

On the last day of the holidays, while the Weasleys were all out visiting at St Mungo’s, Professor Dumbledore stepped through the floo. Harry wondered if it was strategically timed for when the house was quietest — that thought was confirmed when Professor Snape stepped through after him.

Sirius, who was stirring some soup on the stove, froze.

“Headmaster, Professor,” Harry greeted calmly. “What can we do for you, today? I’m afraid if you’re looking for any of the Weasleys, they’re at the hospital.”

“Not to worry, my boy — I was hoping we could have a chat with you,” Dumbledore said, looking jovial. His tone immediately set Harry on edge.

“Whatever Snape has to say to Harry, he can say to me, too,” Sirius growled. Beside Dumbledore, Snape’s lips curled in a sneer. Already sensing the explosion, Harry stepped over to his godfather.

“It’s fine, Sirius. I’ll put the soup to simmer, you go upstairs and see what Moony’s up to.”

“Pup,” Sirius started, but Harry cut him off.

“I’ve got this,” he insisted quietly. “Go.” Whatever Dumbledore wanted Snape for, it would be so much worse if Sirius was in the same room at the time. Having Harry around and working through his memories of his school years was helping Sirius, but there was just something about his schoolboy rival that set him off. Where Remus had the years of hindsight to realise the way the Marauders had treated Snape was awful, Sirius’ time in Azkaban had just compounded and twisted the memories until Snape was practically level with Voldemort himself in the man’s mind.

Sirius didn’t look pleased, but he turned for the door. Snape smirked.

“What a good dog you are,” the man drawled. Harry glared at him, pressing a hand to Sirius’ shoulder before the animagus could turn around.

“Leave it, Sirius.”

If Sirius had been Padfoot, his hackles would have been up. Harry nudged the door shut behind him, raising a discreet silencing ward.

When he turned back to the pair, Snape’s dark eyes were calculating, while Dumbledore had the serene smile and twinkling eyes that made trepidation gather in Harry’s gut. “Harry, my boy, I’m glad to see you’ve been doing well under the circumstances. I hope you’ve had a wonderful Christmas with your friends, you must have missed them terribly.”

Harry folded his arms over his chest. “No offence, Headmaster, but we both know you’re not here for smalltalk and a social call. What did you need from me?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Snape spat immediately. Harry didn’t flinch. The Potions’ professor just wasn’t that intimidating anymore, not now Harry had duelled regularly with Mad-Eye Moody himself.

“No, no, Severus; Harry’s right, of course. Might as well get straight to business.” Dumbledore smiled. “I have come with a request for you, my boy. It was remiss of me not to offer this sooner — foolishly, I had thought Voldemort unaware of the uses of the connection between you two. While things worked out well for Arthur Weasley in this particular circumstance, it is worrying to know that the Dark Lord has such free access to your sleeping mind. Professor Snape and I have come to suggest that he begin teaching you Occlumency — it is the art of protecting the mind against external penetration.”

“I know what Occlumency is, Headmaster. There’s some fairly extensive books on the subject in the family library,” Harry replied. He narrowed his gaze, wondering what the hell Dumbledore was playing at. He wanted _Snape_ to come teach Harry Occlumency? Was he mad?

“Ah, I’m glad to hear you’ve kept yourself occupied, my boy!” Dumbledore’s smile widened. “A basic knowledge will certainly make Severus’ job easier.”

Harry glanced to the dark-haired professor. Snape looked like he would rather cut off his own arm than spend any time in Harry’s presence at all, let alone teaching him. “And how does Professor Snape feel about the matter?”

“I had thought myself well shot of you,” Snape retorted. Then his face tightened. “But if it is the headmaster’s wish, then I will teach you. Provided you make the effort as a student you were so sorely lacking in your school career.”

Harry bit back a snort. Dumbledore looked pleased by the whole thing, as if his plans were so easily falling into place. But there was one thing that just didn’t add up to Harry.

“All due respect, Headmaster — we both know that Occlumency isn’t going to make a lick of difference in the amount of access Voldemort has to my mind. It is, as you said, for _external penetration_ after all.” And that definitely wasn’t a good enough reason to be using the word ‘penetration’ in conversation with his two former professors. Behind his glasses, Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not quite sure what you’re implying, my boy. Have no fear, Voldemort sending you these visions does not mean he cannot be shielded from your thoughts.”

“Except when he’s coming from a position within any shields I would build.” Harry didn’t want to say it, not in front of Snape. But if Dumbledore truly knew about the horcrux in Harry’s skull, he would know that a connection like that could not be blocked with simple Occlumency.

Harry would know. He’d checked.

Almost imperceptibly, Dumbledore tensed. “You believe you have more information on the nature of your connection? Have you had other visions, apart from the one of Arthur?”

That wasn’t any of Dumbledore’s damned business. If he was truly worried about the security of Harry’s mind, he would have offered Occlumency lessons last year when Harry first began having visions. That he was only offering now, after everybody knew…

“If you’re worried about how much of that information Voldemort might be able to glean from my mind, don’t worry — he’s far too arrogant to think there’s anything in there he doesn’t already know. He believes me to have returned to the muggle world. If he knew where I was, what I was doing, he would have made a move to draw me out by now.” Then Harry glanced at Snape, who was watching the whole exchange with calculating eyes. “On the other hand, if you’re hoping to have _Professor Snape_ learn information from my mind so you can move all your little chess pieces accordingly, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the offer. If I wanted you to know what my plans were, Headmaster, I’d have told you myself.”

Dumbledore looked like he’d choked on one of his lemon drops. Harry smiled sweetly. “Awfully frustrating, isn’t it, having things kept from you?”

“Harry, come now; this grudge is getting childish.”

“It’s not a grudge, it’s tactics,” Harry retorted. “You’re waging your own war, Headmaster. I appreciate the work you’re doing in managing the wider scale of things; you have far more knowledge and influence than I could think to hold. I have no doubt the Ministry would have fallen without your command of the Order. But I have my own war to win, and I’m sure you can understand how sensitive certain information can be. While I’m sure Professor Snape is a very accomplished Occlumens to have spied on Voldemort for so long, we’re all safer if he knows nothing.”

Then, Harry smirked, glancing at the man. “Besides, I can’t step foot in the castle without the Ministry getting wind of it. Do you really have the time in your schedule to visit here to teach me every week, Professor? On top of your… commitments, outside of Hogwarts?” Umbridge would be keeping an eye on Snape especially. If he was leaving to make his Death Eater meetings, he probably didn’t have time to come and see Harry regularly. “Because quite honestly, if you do, I’d be glad for any lessons you’d be willing to offer. Not Occlumency, of course, but you’re a man of many talents. I would pay good money for you to teach me to brew Wolfsbane for Remus.”

Snape’s lips curled derisively. “I can assure you, Potter — even with whatever fortune your father might have left you, there is not enough gold in Gringotts for me to willingly teach you potions once more. Especially not one so complicated.”

Harry nodded in assent; maybe he’d find something other than gold that would interest Snape, one day. Or maybe he’d just have to accept that some things were beyond his reach, and continue to let Sirius keep paying the man to brew the monthly potion.

“Your concern for Professor Snape’s schedule aside, Harry, I really must insist you learn Occlumency. Residing in Order headquarters, we cannot risk Voldemort siphoning knowledge from you while you are defenceless.”

“If you truly cared about that you’d have offered the moment I got expelled,” Harry pointed out. “And trust me — if Voldemort could reach what I know, we would certainly know about it.” If he knew what Regulus had done, he would have been far to angry to possibly hide it from Harry, and there would have been an attack that the Ministry could not deny. And if Voldemort knew about the horcrux ritual Gringotts had found…

Yeah, they would know.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you distrust me, so, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was full of disappointment. A year or two ago, it might have guilted Harry into agreeing to whatever the man wanted. Now, Harry just snorted.

“Really? No idea at all?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape’s gaze flash with veiled amusement. “If Occlumency is truly something you think I would benefit from, I’ll happily consider adding it to my schedule. But I think Professor Snape has better things to do outside school hours than teach me — it’s part of the auror training curriculum, I can always have Kingsley or Tonks teach me. Mad-Eye’s said he’s no great shakes at Legilimency these days. And Sirius has enough to work on with his own mindscape without bothering with mine.” Harry smiled a cool, disarming smile. “I’m sorry, Professor Snape — it does seem you’ve rather wasted the trip. Can I offer you a drink before you leave? Or— oh, Kreacher found some bottles of something we’re pretty sure are some kind of venom in the cellar the other day. Couldn’t identify them, not too keen on trying. Would you like them? They might be some sort of potion ingredient.” Harry’s smile turned devilish. “Or something you might be tempted to slip into Professor Umbridge’s tea, I don’t know — I’ll leave that up to you.”

Again, there was that brief flicker of amusement, and Snape pursed his lips. “To save anyone worrying about what trouble you might get into with unknown substances, I can remove them from your possession,” he agreed.

“Fantastic. Kreacher!” The elf appeared, shocking both the headmaster and Snape. “Those bottles you found in the cellar the other day, the weird ones with those gross bone stoppers — would you get them for me, please? Professor Snape is going to take them.”

Kreacher’s large eyes slid to peer at Snape for a moment, then he nodded, summoning a small box with a click of his fingers. There were five bottles inside, each about the size and shape of a small pear, sealed with off-white stoppers that seemed to be chiselled bone.

“Does Master need anything else from Kreacher?”

Harry shook his head, and the elf bowed, disappearing. Harry passed the box to Snape. “Here you are, Sir. Hope they’re something useful.”

“Kreacher appears to have taken to you, my boy,” Dumbledore mused, curiosity evident. Harry shrugged.

“He and I found some common ground.” He was referring to Regulus, but the tiny flinch the old man gave suggested his mind had gone to Harry’s life at the Dursleys’. Well, Harry wasn’t going to argue with that, either.

Snape pocketed the box in his voluminous robe, and just as Dumbledore turned to Harry once more, the kitchen door slammed open.

“Cured!” It was Mr Weasley, a trench coat over his striped pyjamas, his entire family plus Hermione beaming behind him. “Completely cured!” He paused, looking between Harry, Dumbledore and Snape. “Oh, terribly sorry, are we interrupting?”

“Don’t worry, we were finished talking,” Harry assured him. “It’s good to see you back on your feet!”

Mr Weasley smiled widely. “All thanks to you, Harry, m’lad!”

“Harry, I don’t think this conversation is over,” Dumbledore began. Harry’s green eyes were icy when he turned them on the aged wizard.

“Then we’ll agree to disagree. Like I said, Headmaster; I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to have to decline. And next time you want information from me, I suggest you just _ask_.”

Behind him, he heard Hermione gasp softly. Dumbledore’s eyes grew sad. “If you insist, dear boy. I’m sorry you feel that way. Come, Severus; we should get back to the castle. Arthur, it is truly tremendous to see you’ve recovered.”

Snape didn’t need more permission than that to step back into the floo. Dumbledore lingered a moment, as if hoping he might be invited to stay for tea now everybody was home, but when no such offer came forth, he bid his goodbyes and disappeared into the hearth.

“What was all that about, mate?” Ron asked, looking baffled. “What was Snape here for?”

“Nothing important,” Harry replied airily. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Mrs Weasley was so overjoyed to have her husband home that she seemed oblivious to the tension in the air, hurrying into the pantry to pull out the cake she’d baked in celebration of Arthur’s return. Hermione and Ron rushed to Harry’s side.

“Harry, I can’t believe you’d talk to the headmaster like that!” Hermione hissed, wide-eyed. Harry smiled thinly.

“Not my headmaster anymore, Hermione.” He squeezed past them, intent on greeting Mr Weasley properly. He didn’t want to get into that argument with her — they would always have _very_ different views of authority figures.

“I know Molly’s passed it along, but I wanted to thank you in person, Harry,” Mr Weasley insisted, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously. He was sat at the kitchen table, coat hooked over the back of his chair, and Harry could see the block of white bandages through the flimsy material of the hospital-issue pyjama shirt. “It was a lucky day our Ron decided to befriend you on the Hogwarts Express, for all the family!”

Harry’s smile softened. “I think I got just as lucky, Mr Weasley,” he insisted, looking over the crowd of redheads, eyes lingering on the twins as they tried to sneak the largest slices of cake from their mother’s tray. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“There was a bit of a hiccup with the venom’s potency — wouldn’t let the wounds heal up — but we, ah, got there in the end.” Mr Weasley glanced at his wife sheepishly, no doubt remembering the stitches debacle. “And really, Harry, it’s about time you called me Arthur, don’t you think?” He chuckled, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’re a Weasley, now, son, for better or worse!”

Harry froze. Instinctively, his eyes darted to George — no, that wasn’t what Mr Weasley meant. He didn’t know a thing about that. He chuckled somewhat awkwardly, ducking his head. “I— if you insist, Mr— Arthur.”

Luckily for Harry, his discomfort was smoothed right over by the delivery of cake, and Harry let Mrs Weasley take his seat so she could fuss over her husband, jumping up to check on the soup.

He noticed Sirius slink into the room, his shoulders relaxing when Harry’s was the only black head of hair in sight. “What did Snivelly want?” he asked quietly, coming to stand beside Harry at the stove.

“Sirius,” Harry chided — he’d promised to stop using that nickname. Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Fine, what did _Snape_ want?”

“He didn’t want anything. Dumbledore wanted him to teach me Occlumency.”

“Is he mad!?” Sirius blurted out, causing several red heads to swivel in their direction. “Sorry,” he muttered, ducking his head. “What was he thinking that would achieve, other than bloodshed?”

“I think he was hoping Snape would crack me like an egg and report back with whatever I’ve been working on these past few months. I told them no, obviously,” Harry added, scowling. “Snape seemed happy not to have to take me back as a student in any capacity. I gave him those creepy venom bottles Kreacher found, a bit of an apology for him being dragged into all this.”

“Snape doesn’t deserve your apologies,” Sirius snapped automatically. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“We’ve talked about this, Sirius. My childhood was far closer to his than yours growing up, and you’re too old to be such a bully,” he argued firmly. That was one common point of contention between himself and his godfather; Harry heard Sirius’ tales of pranking Snape and he couldn’t help but compare it to Dudley’s treatment of Harry himself, but with magic. Sirius refused to admit it was anything other than childhood fun, and ‘the git had it coming’. The man’s grey eyes darkened.

“You’re nothing like him, Harry.”

“That’s a lie. Besides,” Harry added, glancing over Sirius’ shoulder to see Remus make his way into the room, looking weary from the full moon the night before. “You ought to think about being a bit nicer to the bloke who makes it possible for the man you love not to tear himself to pieces every month.” Harry summoned a bowl, which jumped a little _too_ firmly into his hand, and ladled out a portion of soup. He carried it over to Remus, hoping his scowl had mostly faded. “Here, Moony. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, all things considered,” Remus replied, leaning against the countertop. “I hear Severus stopped by?” His amber eyes were knowing as they drifted to his partner, scowling at the soup pot several feet away.

“With Dumbledore. Don’t worry, they won’t be back any time soon. I’ll tell you later.” He could see the flesh-coloured string tucked behind the bread bin, leading all the way over to where the twins and Ron were gathered. Remus pursed his lips, and nodded.

.-.

Despite the cheer at having Mr Weasley home and healthy, dinner wasn’t as celebratory as it should have been that night. Everyone was all-too aware of the Hogwarts term resuming in the morning. Between that and Sirius sulking over the Snape situation, Harry’s face started to hurt from faking a grin before they even reached dessert.

If anything, this was a hundred times worse than waiting for his friends to leave on September 1st. This time, he knew he wasn’t likely to see them again until the end of the school year — and he knew what kind of hell they were headed back to. There hadn’t been any more education decrees over the break, not as far as they’d seen in the Prophet, but that just made Harry nervous. Who knew what Umbridge was building up to?

“Cheer up, kid,” Kingsley said, snapping Harry from his thoughts. The auror was one of many Order members who had come over for dinner to celebrate Arthur’s good health. “Your friends are tough. They’ll be alright.”

“I wish you could promise me that, Kings,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Anything interesting from the Ministry lately?”

“Not unless you want to sit and listen to me bitch about the security meeting I had with Fudge and the muggle MoD last week,” Kingsley retorted, rolling his eyes. “I swear, the danger to the muggles these days isn’t Voldemort — it’s them underestimating the situation because Fudge is too big an imbecile for them to take seriously.”

Harry snickered. In their training sessions, he’d had many a complaint from the Senior Auror about how impossible it was to liaison with the muggle heads of state and security when Fudge needed as much supervision as a toddler.

“I’ll pass on that, thanks,” he joked, using a nudge of magic to assist the jug of custard that was being passed down the table before someone could spill it.

“I’ll tell you all about it on Thursday, don’t worry,” Kingsley teased, ruffling Harry’s hair. “Nice haircut, by the way.”

Harry grinned self-consciously. “Thanks. I figured it was getting a bit long — I can’t pull off that look like Sirius does.”

Kingsley ran a hand over his own shining bald head. “I don’t know how he does it,” he said ruefully, eyeing the animagus’ dark locks, settling in loose waves at his shoulders. “He had it long for a bit when he was in the aurors, did you know? Until Mad-Eye got sick of him getting it in his eyes and shaved it down to a military cut while he was unconscious in the medical wing one day.”

Harry’s eyes went wide in amusement. “No? Really! He never told me why it was short in some of the pictures.”

Kingsley chuckled. “Moody did it,” he confirmed. “Used healer’s clippers, too — the hair can’t be grown back with a spell, only naturally.”

“Merlin, I bet Sirius was _furious_.” Harry wondered if he could get away with doing that to his godfather one day. Maybe not with the healer’s clippers — Remus might cry if Sirius went short-haired again — but with a spell, just for a day or two.

“Oi, Harry!” Fred called. Harry whipped around to see the twins and Ginny stood by the kitchen door. “Exploding Snap, with those new cards George made last week. You coming or what?” Ron and Hermione seemed to have already left the kitchen; indeed, dinner was winding up, now.

Harry glanced apologetically to Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. “Go, have fun with your friends,” the auror insisted. He winked. “I’ll cut out early on Thursday and come for lunch, tell you all about your godfather’s most embarrassing moments before I wipe the ballroom floor with you.”

“Challenge accepted,” Harry returned, jumping to his feet. “See you, Kings.”

Fred’s declaration had gained them a couple more players for the game; Bill and Tonks trailed after them in morbid curiosity, joining them in the living room.

“Hang on,” Harry said, magically rearranging the furniture into a circle, expanding the table in the middle to fit everyone. He turned, beginning to raise protective wards in front of the bookshelves. “Bill, you might want to fireproof the table.”

The eldest Weasley raised an eyebrow, but waved his wand and muttered a spell. Harry snorted. “Bit more than that. A Thurisaz chain at least.”

“It’s Exploding Snap,” Bill said flatly.

“With cards that your brother made,” Harry retorted. Bill hummed thoughtfully, then nodded.

“Yeah, fair. Here; if we’re going Futhark, put this on top of the cabinet,” he requested, pulling a wardstone from his pocket and tossing it to Harry. “There’s some Teutonic-warded stuff in there that might mix weirdly with the Norse if things get triggered.”

“Y’know, Forge,” George declared, watching the spellcasting take place, “I feel like we should be insulted. Harrykins thinks we’ll blow the house up.”

“Seems more like a compliment to me, Gred,” Fred replied, beaming. He vaulted over the back of the sofa, slapping his hands down on the now-warded table. “Let’s play.”

“You never took Ancient Runes, Harry,” Hermione commented as she claimed the armchair.

“Bill’s been teaching me a bit,” Harry demurred, not wanting to cause an argument about anything this close to their return to Hogwarts. He squeezed onto the sofa beside George, trying not to grin when the redhead’s socked foot hooked around his ankle beneath the table.

“Fleur did most of the difficult bits. I just taught you the fun exploding stuff,” Bill joked, rolling up his shirtsleeves. In unison, five sets of eyes snapped to look at the curse breaker.

“ _Fleur? Fleur Delacour_?” Ron yelped in a strangled tone. “When were you hanging out with _Fleur Delacour_?”

All the colour drained from Bill’s face. Across the table, Harry met Tonks’ gaze, and they both burst out laughing.


	18. Chapter 18

Saying goodbye was hard.

Harry didn’t let himself be alone with George at any point, not wanting to make things any harder. They settled for intense staring that Harry was amazed none of the others noticed, and a boisterous hug identical to the one Fred had given Harry when they all gathered to go get the train.

“Don’t get too bored without us,” George joked, ruffling Harry’s hair. If his hand lingered just a second, there was too much chaos going on for anyone else to realise. “Look after yourself, Potter.”

“You too, Weasley,” Harry retorted, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “All of you,” he added, gazing over the assembled group. “Watch out for Umbridge. And win the Quidditch Cup for me.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” Ginny cheered, saluting jauntily.

Bill, who had stayed the night at Grimmauld even after being ruthlessly interrogated about his girlfriend, began to help usher everyone out along with their assortment of trunks and animal cages. Harry watched until the door was shut, his shoulders slumping. It felt like his heart had been ripped out and taken along with them.

He gave himself a moment, then two.

Then he straightened up, plastering a smile on his face and turning to Sirius and Remus. “I’m gonna get started on lunch. I think I fancy making bread, today. Maybe that cheesy garlic bread? We can have soup for lunch, and I’ll do lasagne for dinner. How’s that sound?”

“I— yeah, sounds great.” Sirius eyed him oddly. “Why bread?”

Harry’s smile widened almost aggressively. “I need to punch something.”

.-.-.-.

With the house emptier again, things settled back into a similar routine to before Christmas. Mr and Mrs Weasley moved back to the Burrow, and Harry resumed his training and tutoring. His plans with Fleur were starting to show promise, and that had him spending his evenings flicking through Sirius’ old copies of his fifth year textbooks, checking for any gaps in his knowledge.

“It’s alright to give yourself a break every now and then, pup,” Sirius pointed out from across the living room, his head in Remus’ lap as he watched Harry juggle a book, parchment and quill in his armchair blanket cocoon.

“I did, it’s called the whole Christmas holiday,” Harry retorted, sticking his quill in his mouth to turn his page.

“And you haven’t stopped working in the entire week since.” Remus frowned at him, one hand carding through Sirius’ hair. “You’ll burn yourself out if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine, I promise,” Harry dismissed. “I just… I feel like something big is coming. I need to stay busy.” He’d been restless for the last few days, with no idea why. The kind of restless he might once have soothed by going flying — now he didn’t have that option, he would take what he could get.

“Sounds like you’re just sexually frustrated,” Sirius declared sagely. “Spending all that time with your boy and not doing anything about it. Happens to the best of us. Go have a bath and a wank, it’ll sort you right out.”

“Sirius!” Harry groaned, blushing hotly.

“It’s perfectly natural, Harry! Healthy young lad like you, I’m amazed you kept your hands off him! You must be dying to blow off some steam. I gave you that book for Christmas for a reason, y’know — you’re gonna do it, I’d rather you did it properly.”

“I really need you to stop talking, now.”

“There’s a muggle shop about fifteen minutes walk from here, sells all sorts of naughty things — you should put all your studying to work and make yourself look eighteen, transfigure up a fake ID and go buy yourself something fun, maybe that’ll chill you out ’til your beau returns from the war.”

Through all of this, Remus was laughing silently into his cardigan sleeve, absolutely no help whatsoever. Harry thought he was going to explode from the force of his blush. If he’d been braver, maybe he’d have retorted that he’d already _been_ to the muggle shop and bought himself plenty, but he didn’t want Sirius to feel like he’d won.

“I’m not sexually frustrated!” Harry burst out, letting his book fall to the floor. “At least, that’s not why I’m restless! It’s different.”

“Can’t hurt, though,” Sirius reasoned — Harry hated the neutral expression his godfather kept through the whole exchange, when he could see in the man’s grey eyes how badly he wanted to laugh at Harry’s discomfort. “Personally I don’t see why you didn’t take the opportunity while he was here — you gave him the mirror, you could always use that for a bit of private time while he’s at school.” He winked. “Repression is bad for the soul, Harry — take it from Moony and me; you’ll be way happier once you stop holding yourself back.”

“Don’t bring me into this, you randy old dog,” Remus muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Excuse you, I’m not the one who—“

“I’m leaving now!” Harry announced loudly, casting a silencing charm at his godfather before that sentence could be finished and his brain could be scarred forever. “Goodnight, please let’s pretend this whole conversation never happened.”

“Masturbation is healthy, Harry!” Sirius called after him, having broken the silencer easily. “Don’t sex-shame yourself!”

Harry shuddered, slamming the living room door shut on the _worst godparents ever_ , trying to eject Sirius’ words from his mind.

Earlier, he _might_ have considered having some private time to try and de-stress, maybe even with one of the toys he’d bought at the muggle sex shop. Now, however, it would be a miracle if he could ever even _think_ about touching himself without Sirius’ encouragement burning into his eyelids.

.-.-.-.

Harry woke up laughing, and that made him worried.

It wasn’t the bubbly, warm kind of laughter that came from the tail end of a dream about the twins’ pranks, or even the slightly embarrassed laughter of looking back over last night’s conversation with Sirius. It was a fanatic, maniacal laughter that came from a place that was not his own, and was accompanied by a headache and a pit in his stomach.

Voldemort was laughing. Had been laughing all night, by the feel of it. His euphoria cut through Harry like a knife, an icy sense of _triumph_ within him. Harry went down to breakfast with a heavy feeling of trepidation, and when he saw his godfathers’ expressions and the Prophet headline, the laughter suddenly made sense.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed through his teeth, staring at ten black-and-white faces leering from the front page.

“Did you see anything?” Sirius tapped his forehead roughly where the scar would be on Harry’s. Harry shook his head.

“No, but I felt it.” Ever since the attack on Mr Weasley, he hadn’t seen much of anything in his dreams, not even the corridor at the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort was cutting off that contact, no-doubt trying to figure out how much access to the magical world Harry truly had. “He’s so _happy_.”

“He would be,” Sirius muttered with a scowl, glaring at the newspaper. In her frame, his cousin Bellatrix Lestrange stared back menacingly. “Got all his best friends back with him, now.”

Harry pulled the paper closer to read the accompanying article, and noticed each Wanted poster held the occupant’s name and a short description of their crimes. His gaze lingered on the words beneath Bellatrix’s. “Merlin, poor Neville.” Everyone at school would know about his parents, now. Harry was glad he’d taken the chance to write to the boy over Christmas, and wished he could send him a note now without Umbridge getting her hands on it.

He couldn’t believe that the Ministry were _still_ burying their heads in the sand, blaming the breakout on _Sirius_ of all people. “Blimey, Padfoot; didn’t know you were such a criminal mastermind,” he commented bitterly. “Breaking ten people out of Azkaban.”

“I astound myself, sometimes,” came Sirius’ equally snide response.

“Shall I assume Tonks won’t be round today, then?” Harry was supposed to have a session with her all morning. He’d been looking forward to it, planning on telling her of Sirius’ embarrassing antics the night before, maybe having her help think of a way to get back at the man. She would probably be rushed off her feet for the foreseeable future — Kingsley, too.

Harry glanced over at Remus, who had been silent since he entered the kitchen. The man was staring at the spot on the table where the paper had been before Harry picked it up, his amber eyes unseeing and his hands wrapped too-tightly around his mug. “Remus? Are you alright?”

Remus startled, tea slopping over onto his fingers, though he didn’t seem to notice. “What? Oh. I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Fenrir Greyback. He’s the wolf that bit me. I just… wasn’t expecting to see his face again.”

Harry stared in horror, then looked back at the front page, at the man baring his teeth with a snarl. _Fenrir Greyback, werewolf convicted of intentional turning and murder of children_.

“Merlin, Moony…”

Sirius reached over, easing one of Remus’ hands free to tangle their fingers together. “We’ll get him,” he vowed determinedly. “He was in there almost as long as I was; it’ll take a while before he’s in any state to do anything. As soon as he starts showing his disgusting face again, the aurors will get him. They know what they’re facing.”

Harry hoped that was the case. The only thing he’d heard about the current lot of aurors was bitching from Kingsley and Tonks about how useless most of them were, and how they all lived halfway up Fudge’s arse.

“So Voldemort’s got the dementors on his side, then?” he presumed, reading further down the article where it relayed the ‘mysterious’ disappearance of the Azkaban guards. “Shit.” He wished he’d had the chance to teach his friends how to do a Patronus charm. Hermione had asked, over the break — Harry had shown her, and explained it to her, but with her unable to do magic in the holidays she hadn’t been able to do more than just get the theory.

He wondered if she’d been practicing; if she was going to teach the DA. He hoped so.

He couldn’t even write and ask her, not with Umbridge about. Maybe he could send her a message patronus, if he watched on the Map to see when she and Ron might be alone. Or he could ask Fred and George to figure out a way to pass the message along, without admitting they were in contact with Harry.

It had only been a week. If things got much worse, he’d ditch the idea of keeping the mirror a secret, have the twins come clean and face Ron’s anger just to be able to talk to his other friends. Even if Ron claimed the mirror, and Harry lost his easy contact with George. It would be worth it.

If things got much worse.

He snorted to himself, glancing down at the paper. How much worse did it have to get?

.-.-.

Over the next couple of weeks, he was on the mirror almost every other night to the twins, getting their reports about what was going on at the school. Shortly after the Azkaban break out, Umbridge had made another decree banning teachers from talking to students about things unrelated to their schoolwork. She’d put Hagrid on probation, seemed to have someone or another in detention every night — far too often it was one of the Weasleys, and Harry wanted to punch something every time he saw the red-raw scars on the twins’ hands. They had almost faded completely over Christmas, and now they were worse than ever.

In the first week of February, Harry picked up the mirror to see both twins looked at him, absolutely furious. “What happened?” he asked with trepidation.

In one of her most blatant moves yet, Umbridge had decided that excessive detentions was not enough for the twins. She had banned them from the quidditch team, confiscating their brooms in the process.

“Can she even do that?” Harry exploded, looking at the identical dark expressions.

“She can do whatever the hell she wants, mate,” Fred retorted. “Honestly, I don’t know why we’re still kicking around this place. No quidditch, carving our hands up in detention, more rules than a bloody prison. We should just say sod it and leave.”

Harry didn’t look George in the eye. “But what about Ron and Ginny? And Hermione?” he asked softly, face grim.

“As if they’d let us help them with anything,” George retorted. “We’re not you, Harry.”

The words twisted painfully in Harry’s chest. Not for the first time, he wanted to say sod Voldemort and the war, and make his way into Hogwarts just to show Umbridge everything he’d learned since she’d had him expelled. He wondered if she was secretly a Death Eater, or a sympathiser at the very least. She had to be, with her bullshit pureblood supremacist views.

But no — surely if she were a Death Eater, she would have done something to try and get the prophecy to Voldemort. She was just an utterly foul human being, regardless of any dark leanings.

“Well, I’ve never been able to stop you two doing anything you’ve put your mind to, so far be it from me to try now,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just… make sure they’ll be alright, if you do go? Leave the mirror with them or something. You two are my only eyes and ears in the castle.”

Harry had never felt more isolated in his life.

.-.-.-.-.

“Mind if I borrow you for a bit, Harry?”

The voice, coming unexpectedly from the fireplace as Harry sat down for a late breakfast, startled him so much he dropped his fork with a loud clatter. “Oops, sorry.” It was Bill — or rather, just Bill’s head, staring sheepishly up from the fire. “You alright? You look a bit…”

“Sleep-deprived?” Harry finished dryly. He’d seen himself in the mirror, he knew how bad the dark circles beneath his eyes were. “Yeah, a bit. Rough night.” He’d been privy to a Death Eater meeting that lasted far too long and involved far too many Cruciatus curses for his liking. His fingers still trembled from the aftershocks even now. “What do you need me for? If it involves any sort of quick reflexes, I can’t help you.” Harry felt like he’d spent all night running uphill in the mud, and then been dragged through hedges all the way back down.

“Nah, nothing like that. Can I come through?”

Harry nodded, and Bill appeared in the kitchen, wearing his usual work uniform of a dark red dragon-hide jacket and jeans. Harry gestured towards the kettle, but Bill shook his head. “No thanks, I’m fine. Merlin, you sure you’re okay?” In a move very reminiscent of his mother, Bill reached out to press the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead, checking his temperature. Harry almost smiled.

“I’m fine, just — visions. Nothing like your dad,” he added quickly, at the redhead’s look of alarm. “Just Death Eater meetings. Didn’t sleep much.” His throat was still sore from screaming.

“Gods,” Bill cursed, brows knitting together. “Right. Well, we can always do this another day if you need to, but— the team have been working with the ritual, gathering everything needed and testing the components to try and work out if it’ll do what we want it to do.”

“As opposed to stealing my soul instead or something?” Harry joked. Bill didn’t laugh.

“We’re like ninety-five percent sure it won’t do that, don’t worry,” he assured. “The big mystery in it all is whether your scar is enough of Voldemort’s soul for you to even be able to perform the ritual. If it’s not, we don’t think anything will happen — none of your soul is outside your body, so there’s nothing to disperse.”

Harry blinked dumbly. “So… what do you need me to do?” Was there some sort of test, like a geiger counter or something— a scanner to wave over him and see how much of Voldemort’s soul he contained? They had the locket already; Harry had taken it from Kreacher with the promise to bring him proof when the job was finished. Did they want to compare the two?

“Mostly just sit there, really. Let my team do some diagnostics. As you can imagine, we’re all a bit reluctant to leave something this big to chance and luck.”

“Haven’t you heard? Chance and luck is kind-of my thing,” Harry replied wryly. “Is it safe?”

“I’ll take you in the staff entrance again. No one on the team will tell anyone they’ve seen you — they’re all very discreet, I promise. Kind of comes with the job, working with peoples’ private affairs. You can trust them.”

If Bill was happy they wouldn’t blow Harry’s cover, that was good enough for him. Looking down at his half-eaten sausage sandwich, he nodded resolutely and stifled a yawn. “Yeah, sounds like something I can do. Let me just let someone know I’m headed out.”

He had no idea what Sirius and Remus were up to that morning. He only knew they’d left their room because the sausages had been waiting for him under a warming charm.

Double checking that the silencing bubble Bill and Fleur had warded Mrs Black’s portrait with was still holding strong, Harry stood at the base of the stairs. “Moony! Padfoot!” he yelled, waiting for a response.

“Yeah, pup?” Sirius shouted back. He sounded a little breathless. Harry wrinkled his nose.

“Bill’s kidnapping me for a bit! Don’t know when I’ll be back!” he informed them. There was a beat of silence, and a faint thud.

“Okay, have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Another pause, some faint giggling. “Scratch that — don’t do anything Moony would do! Love you, pup!”

There was more giggling, which cut off sharply like someone had raised a silencing spell. Harry shoved the entire interaction to the back of his mind to save from scarring himself for life, and wandered back into the kitchen. “I’m good to go.” He glanced at the table, and reached for the other half of his sandwich. “This is coming with me.”

“Just don’t lose it in the floo,” Bill warned in amusement.

With that in mind, Harry’s solution was to shove the entire thing in his mouth in one go — and then try very, very hard not to either choke or vomit as Bill took him through the Gringotts’ staff entrance. He stumbled out, coughing on a piece of bread wedged in the back of his throat. Bill whacked him heartily on the back. “I’m good. I’m fine. We’re good.” Harry looked up, eyes automatically finding Fleur, who grinned at him from the midst of a group of humans and goblins alike.

“Salut, Harry!” she greeted cheerfully, then pursed her lips and frowned. “You ‘ave not been taking care of yourself.”

“Not all of us can be as gorgeous as you, dear,” Bill told her smoothly, bypassing Harry to kiss her on the cheek. A stocky blond man who looked about Sirius’ age made an exaggerated retching noise.

“That’s a sickle in the jar, Weasley,” he heckled in a thick Irish accent. Bill rolled his eyes, and Fleur laughed — she reached into her pocket and pulled out a sickle, dropping it neatly in a glass jar full halfway with the silver coins. Harry looked closer, seeing the jar was labelled ‘ _PDA tax’_. He snickered.

“You two are that bad?” he asked, amused. Bill cuffed him gently round the ear.

“Don’t listen to them — at least half of that came from Jenna and Emine,” he insisted, jerking a thumb at two women perched on the end of a desk. The darker-skinned one of the pair laughed, flipped him off, and said something in a language Harry didn’t recognise, while the other just giggled.

“So you’re Harry Potter, hmm?” The man who’d made Fleur pay the tax stepped forward, eyeing Harry over like he was a particular intriguing puzzle. Harry tried not to squirm. “Blimey, yeah, that scar of yours is just haemorrhaging dark magic, isn’t it?” He reached out a hand, and Harry jerked back.

“Boundaries, Dec,” Bill chided, the phrase sounding rote. He squeezed Harry’s shoulder reassuringly. “Harry, this is Declan McKeithan, call him Dec. He’s our resident mage-seer.”

Now the man’s comment about magic made sense. “My scar stands out that much?” Harry asked in shock. Dec nodded.

“Bold as brass, lad,” he confirmed. “Hurts to look right at you, a bit.”

“Nah, that’s just his face,” Bill teased. Fleur slapped him gently on the chest.

“William, behave.”

Bill just grinned at Harry. “Over there we have Jenna Westmoor and Emine Sakir — Jenna’s our numbers whizz, Emine is all about languages.” The two women waved brightly. “Then Conrad Michaels, our historian; the man who discovered the ritual to begin with.” A grey-haired man far older than the rest of the team nodded in Harry’s direction. “Makali, our healer and captain.” One of the three goblins on the team, with eerie pale green eyes and a thick blond moustache, raised a hand. “And finally the twins, Thanax and Kalax, who have done more rituals between them than perhaps anyone else in Gringotts.” Harry was quite sure he was meeting his first ever female goblins — they didn’t look all that different from the male ones, but their bronze hair was in two thick braids down their backs, and they were entirely identical but for a ropey scar on Kalax’s nose. “And of course, you know Fleur.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Harry greeted, offering a slightly awkward wave.

“The pleasure’s ours,” Jenna insisted, her voice quiet and faintly accented, though he couldn’t pinpoint where from. “We haven’t had a case this interesting in _years_!” Emine elbowed her in the ribs. “Ow! Oh, yeah, also Bill’s told us loads about you and says you’re great, so that’s nice too!”

Harry bit back his amusement. “So… what do you need me to do?”

The twins stepped forward in unison, eyeing him with a vaguely predatory gaze that sent an uneasy shiver down his spine. “Come with us, Harry Potter,” Thanax requested, beckoning him to follow her. “We have much to discuss.”

Fleur looped her arm through Harry’s, tugging him along as if they were off on a stroll through Paris rather than leading him deep into the catacombs of Gringotts to perform unknown and possibly experimental diagnostic magic on the piece of a dark lord’s soul that resided in his skull.

Probably just your average work day, for Bill’s team.


	19. Chapter 19

Working for Gringotts was now much higher on Harry’s list of potential careers than it had been prior to his introduction to Bill’s team. They had made him feel welcome almost instantly, despite the intense stares of several members of the team — according to Bill, they were just very, very focused on their work. It was an intimidating start, but once they’d got Harry settled on a stone bench in the middle of a slightly sinister-looking ritual circle, they hadn’t become as clinical as Harry had feared; questions about his magic and his scar were interspersed with queries about his hobbies and interests, and anecdotes of Bill’s early years on their team. It turned out that other than Fleur, Bill was the newest member of the team — and even that had been six years ago, now. They were a well-oiled machine, each one with a specialty but providing a vast array of knowledge and skill between them, and they spoke with each other like family. It reminded Harry of being at the Weasleys’ when all of Bill’s siblings were around, and Bill laughed when he said as much.

“Why d’you think I fit in so easy? It’s just like home,” he joked, grinning.

Between them, the team did several scans and tests on Harry, most of which required nothing but for him to sit there and not move. At one point Dec asked Harry to perform wandless magic, and the man’s violet-coloured eyes were almost glassed-over as he stared intently. “Fascinating,” he muttered, while Harry transfigured a piece of stray parchment into a live robin, which perched on his finger and chirped a couple of times before Harry turned it back, then set the parchment on fire. “I could write a whole bloody thesis on you, Potter.”

“Please don’t,” Harry replied mildly.

He was there for most of the day, getting poked and prodded with various instruments and forms of magic. At the same time, Conrad and Emine explained the basis of the ritual to him, going through it step by step and giving a full description of the use of each component.

“If you know what each part means, then you will know if it does not feel right,” Emine told him. “We will not be able to help you with the ritual itself, when the time comes.”

Through it all, there was not a single reference to the circumstances behind the ritual, except in clinical terms. None of them cared that he was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. None of them gave a toss that he’d been expelled from Hogwarts at fifteen. They were just happy to have a new puzzle to figure out — and then, when he began to ask questions about their work, a new audience to gush to. Even Bill was a little different than he was around his family; unlike at home, where he was the responsible eldest sibling, here he was the much-loved and much-teased baby brother.

By the time Dec declared that they’d gained all the information they could from his scar and would need to process the results in time, Harry was sad to leave. Jenna made Bill promise to bring Harry back sometime, and Makali declared Harry an excellent candidate for an apprenticeship, should he be interested once Fleur had fully qualified. Apparently each team could only have one apprentice at a time, for safety reasons.

“I’ll think about it, yeah,” Harry said earnestly. He hadn’t realised there were so many employment options within Gringotts, or so many branches of magic. It was incredible!

To make up for turning him into a lab rat for the day, Bill and Fleur took him down to the staff canteen, apologising for not being able to take him out for a proper meal.

“We wouldn’t get three feet out the door, this time of day,” Bill said with a grimace, which then turned playful. “Fleur turns too many heads.”

The quarter-veela laughed, rolling her eyes. “Are all the Weasley boys this charming, Harry?” she asked wryly. “I do not remember them being so.”

Considering Fleur had mostly encountered Ron, who had all the charm and poise of a hippogriff trying to ice skate, he could see how Fleur would be surprised.

“They have their moments,” Harry replied with a laugh, thinking of sparkling brown eyes and a devious smile.

“Oh! What is that face!” Fleur gasped, pointing accusingly at him. “I am a veela, I know that face!”

Beside her, Bill almost choked on his baklava. “He’s got a face? What face?” He looked at Harry, narrowing his eyes. “Which of my brothers is making you make that face?” Suddenly he looked a bit ill. “Please God don’t say Ron.”

Harry looked ill too, at the thought of fancying his best mate. “Jesus, no; Hermione can have him,” he replied reflexively. Then he blushed. “I wasn’t making any face! There was no face!”

“You are a dirty liar, Harry Potter,” Fleur accused. “That was the face of _l’amour._ Come, now — we trusted you with our secret. We can be trusted too, non?”

“It’s a twin, it’s got to be. He doesn’t know Charlie well enough,” Bill said, studying Harry as intensely as he’d studied him during the horcrux diagnostics, though this time with more of a smile on his face. There was no mention of Percy. “Is it George? It must be George. Fred’s straight, you know that, you wouldn’t still have that face.” Bill gasped theatrically, raising a hand to his chest. “Harry James Potter, are you having it off with my little brother?”

“Shut your mouth!” Harry hissed, beet-red, glancing around the canteen anxiously. There were a few others in there, but no one was paying them any attention.

“Relax, the tables are privacy-warded,” Bill dismissed. “Answer the question! Are you sneaking around with George?”

“I haven’t done anything with George!” he insisted. It wasn’t even a lie.

“But you would like to,” Fleur drawled knowingly, eyes sparkling. “I admit, I cannot tell the twins apart. But I remember they were ‘andsome. They are trouble, yes?”

“ _So_ much trouble _,”_ Bill confirmed. He grinned wickedly, turning back to Harry. “Come on, mate, you can tell me — we’re basically family! I’m helping you defeat Voldemort! You can admit to fancying my brother. Does he know? Does he fancy you back?” Bill frowned thoughtfully, like he was mentally reviewing every interaction between George and Harry he’d ever been present for. “I can’t even tell if he talks about you more than average; all my siblings talk about you loads. All those shenanigans you get up to,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Spill, Harry. What’s the deets here?”

“What are you, a thirteen year-old girl at a sleepover?” Harry grumbled. Bill’s grin widened. “There’s nothing to tell. No _deets_.” This time, Harry was more resigned than defensive. “He’s at Hogwarts, and I’m not. S’all there is to it.” He didn’t mean to sulk, he really didn’t, but _God_ it was getting harder by the day. He missed all his friends at Hogwarts, but he missed George the most.

Fleur turned sympathetic, and she reached over to pat him on the hand. “There is time. Summer will be here soon. Then they graduate, oui?” Harry nodded. She grinned impishly. “Then soon there will be plenty to tell. And we expect to be the first you call.”

“If you want to take on a Weasley twin, more power to you,” Bill said, making it sound akin to trying to harness a tornado. “Merlin, I can’t believe you went the whole Christmas break and I didn’t suspect a thing! Sure I was a bit distracted with Dad and all, but I saw you two together loads of times! There was nothing!”

“Good,” Harry replied somewhat sharply. “You weren’t supposed to suspect. There _is_ nothing to suspect.”

“You aren’t worried, are you? What the others will say?” Bill’s brows furrowed. “Godric, Mum’ll be over the moon. The whole family loves you, Harry. There might be a bit of teasing, but it’s all in good fun. Surely Ron’s told you that.”

“Ron doesn’t know.”

At this, Bill’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Serious? You haven’t even told Ron? What about Hermione?” Harry shook his head. “Who does know?”

“Fred, obviously. And Sirius, and Remus. They guessed.”

“And that’s it? Not even Ginny?” Again, Harry shook his head. “Blimey, Harry. Why?”

Harry grimaced, his stomach tying itself in knots, a lump forcing its way up his throat — this is why he didn’t want anyone to know. He hated having to deal with the _questions_. Things were so much easier when it was just him and George, never saying anything but secure in the fact that they _knew_. Little smiles and brushed hands and knees pressed together under the table, no explanation needed. At first they just weren’t ready, both figuring themselves out as they grew older, Harry wondering if the flutters in his chest were just friendship and admiration of Ron’s cool older brother, eventually realising it was so much more than that. They both knew the right moment would come eventually — would have come sooner if the dementors hadn’t blown Harry’s whole life to hell.

“Like I said; he’s at Hogwarts, I’m not. It’s nothing yet. People don’t need to know.” So much of his personal life was treated like public property. He wanted this for himself.

Fleur leaned against Bill’s arm, whispering something in French in his ear. She looked at Harry like she could read all those thoughts plain on his face. When she pulled back, raising a blonde eyebrow at her boyfriend, he sighed.

“Okay. Nothing to tell, then. That’s fine,” he assured. His steel-toed boot bumped Harry’s foot beneath the table. “But for the record, when there is something to tell, we’ll all be happy for you.”

Harry tried to muster a smile. Sometimes, when he thought about everyone knowing — even just the family — he felt a bit sick. Not because he thought they’d disapprove, just… as soon as people knew, it stopped being about just him and George.

“You know, you’ve an awful lot to say about it considering you only just told your siblings about Fleur over Christmas — _by accident_ ,” he said slowly, narrowing his gaze at Bill. “Your parents don’t know a thing, and you two are actually dating.”

“Uh. Right.” Suddenly, Bill was utterly fixated on the pastry on his plate. “Here, Harry, have you tried the baklava? It’s amazing here; best I’ve had anywhere in the world!”

Harry bit back a smug smile. Served him right for asking questions.

.-.-.-.-.

February dragged into March in an endless slog of rain and cold — even though Kreacher kept all the fires going, the house was still chilly. Harry had stopped going out into the muggle world, not wanting to deal with the atrocious weather, and even Sirius wasn’t desperate enough for fresh air to want to face all that mud as Padfoot.

Bill’s team at Gringotts were making good progress with the ritual, apparently, and all signs pointed to it being possible. Even that couldn’t raise Harry’s spirits — he still had to get to a point where he was actually ready to use said ritual and face a Dark Lord. Meanwhile, attacks were being carried out all over the country; now being blamed on the escaped Death Eaters, who the Prophet accused of independently causing chaos. Because ten mass-murderers who all followed the same dark lord breaking out of prison and deciding to go their separate ways and cause trouble that was very much like what that dark lord would ask of them, entirely of their own devising, was _completely_ believable.

It was hard. With every day that passed, every new face or name in the obituaries of the newspaper, every article declaring Albus Dumbledore a liar and a scare-mongerer, the lump of guilt sitting in Harry’s gut grew that little bit heavier. The urge to just do the ritual and wait for Voldemort to find him became that little bit louder.

The sensible side of him knew better. Progress with the ritual did not mean it was ready, certainly didn’t mean _he_ was ready. They only got one chance, and Harry couldn’t fuck it up.

That didn’t make it any easier to handle.

As he had for many nights in the past now, Harry sat in bed surrounded by books, an orb of magical light hovering above his head. It was well past midnight, and the others in the house were asleep. It was just Harry, listening to the wind rattle his window, trying to distract himself by reading about the Giant Wars of 1352. Or trying to bore himself to sleep, he wasn’t fussy.

Turning the page, he jolted at an abrupt buzzing sound. The two-way mirror, which lived constantly in sight on his bedside table now, was vibrating. Setting his book aside, he reached for it, his own face disappearing in the glass. Instead of meeting brown eyes, he was left staring at total darkness. A faint shadow moved, and he heard the faint rustle of fabric. “Harry.”

“George,” he greeted, relaxing a little. The older boy didn’t sound scared, or alarmed.

“It’s pitch black, how can you tell it’s me?” came the faintly indignant response.

_It’s the way you say my name_ , Harry almost blurted, but he held it back. That felt like too much, too soon — he didn’t know what this call was about.

“Fred has the sense to turn a light on,” he teased instead. He heard a snort, and then a murmured _‘lumos’_ , and George’s face became visible in the low light from his wand-tip. He was in his bed in the Gryffindor dorm, with the drapes pulled shut around him. He was lying on his side, blankets pulled up to his shoulder. His lips curved in a fond smile.

“Better?”

“I s’pose,” Harry replied. He shifted to lean back against the pillows stacked against his headboard, stretching out his legs. “You alright? It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” George replied noncommittally. “What’s your excuse?”

“Same.” Harry held up his book in view of the mirror. “Doing a bit of light reading.”

“Ooh, fascinating,” said George drolly. Harry laughed.

Even though both of them were definitely within silencing charms, they still spoke in whispers. It didn’t seem right to be loud, not so late at night, not in the near-dark.

“I’ve got some news for you,” George began. Harry’s heart plummeted. What had gone wrong now?

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” George’s voice, even at a whisper, shook. “We, ah, officially bought premises today. Number 93, Diagon Alley. Soon to be Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

The words echoed in Harry’s ears. “You… really?”

“Yeah.” A tentative grin danced across George’s face. “Signed the deed and everything. Had to sneak down to Hogsmeade to do it, mind, but we weren’t caught. Not that it really matters if we are, now.”

Harry’s pulse stuttered. “Are you leaving, then?” Deep in his chest, hope rose fiercely, though he tried not to let it take hold. He should want the twins to finish out the school year, take their exams, graduate properly. It would mean so much to their mother.

“Not just yet.” There was a strange tone to George’s voice. It sounded a little like Harry felt — like he was disappointed, but didn’t want to admit it. “We saw this Hufflepuff firstie, the other day, with her hand bleeding like nobody’s business. ‘ _My mother is an animal, and I do not deserve a wand’,_ it said.” George’s eyes blazed with fury. “She’s half-selkie, her dad’s a muggle. Poor kid was _terrified_ , crying her eyes out and ready to beg the headmaster to send her home. Can you imagine, your introduction to magical school being _Umbridge_?”

It made Harry feel sick.

“We patched her up, gave her some Snackboxes and a couple Giggling Gobstones to make her smile, promised her that the rest of the wizarding world isn’t like that. Sent her off to Susan Bones, so hopefully the ‘Puffs will look out for her. But Merlin, Harry — the amount of time we spend in detention, imagine how many other kids she could get with that foul quill once we’re gone?”

The selfish little voice in the back of Harry’s head insisted that it didn’t matter, that the twins shouldn’t throw themselves on the pyre for the sake of others, that they should get out while they could. But that voice was tiny, weak. The rest of Harry was full of pride — Fred and George were Gryffindors to the core, bold and brave and _brilliant_ , and Harry’s heart ached with how badly he wanted to be with the redhead staring back at him through the small mirror.

He swallowed thickly. “I bet that little girl is besotted with the pair of you,” he teased, voice cracking. “Her knights in shining armour.”

George chuckled, and Harry could just make out the edges of a blush. “I don’t know about that. I’ll leave all the lovestruck damsels to Fred.”

The pair lay there, their breathing steady and so much louder in the dark and quiet. George shifted, resting his cheek on his bicep while his other hand held the mirror. “It all feels so real now, y’know? Signing that contract. We have a _shop_. In a few months, we’ll have it all decked out and set up, and we’ll be open for business by the next school rush.” He smiled, eyes shining. “It’s been our dream since we were little kids. All we’ve ever wanted to do was open a joke shop. And now we’re doing it.” His smile softened. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

“Don’t give me so much credit,” Harry dismissed. “You two have been working _so_ hard, with the owl-order business. I don’t know how you’re managing to get everything past Umbridge.”

“That’s actually down to you as well. We’re keeping all our stuff in the Shrieking Shack, sending and receiving owls out of there so they never hit the school wards. Since you told us how to get past the Whomping Willow.” He grinned at the look of surprise on Harry’s face. “ And your mate Dobby helps us deliver within the castle. See? You’re far more important than you think, Potter.”

“But you two are the brains behind it all. You’ve invented all of these amazing things, and worked to get stuff sorted for your shop. You’re entrepreneurs, starting up your own business at seventeen. That’s incredible.” He paused, frowning. “How come you never told the others about the Shack? They could’ve written to me.”

“Ron and Hermione are being watched way more closely than we are — and no offence to them, but without you they’re a bit shit at sneaking around,” George added ruefully. “We didn’t want them getting in trouble trying to get down to the Shack, or letting slip to someone they were writing to you. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. We just want to keep them safe.” He worried his lower lip, expecting Harry to be angry that he’d been kept from writing to his friends.

“That’s exactly what I asked you to do,” Harry pointed out. He didn’t blame them. To be honest, Ron and Hermione had enough on their plates with OWLs and their secret study group and everything, without trying to get letters to Harry under Umbridge’s nose. “‘M not mad at you.”

“Good.” He saw George relax — his gaze was just that little bit drowsy, making Harry _ache_ with the need to just crawl through the mirror and curl up in his arms. “I wish you could go to Diagon and see the place we’ve bought. It’s all empty and boring outside right now, obviously, but we’ve got some brilliant plans for it. And there’s a flat on the top floor, a nice little two-bed place, so we can live right above the shop and everything. It’s gonna be brilliant.” His grin turned a little lopsided. “First time in seventeen years I won’t have shared a room with Fred.”

That probably wasn’t supposed to send a fizzle of heat through Harry’s belly, but it did. “I’ll get to see it somehow, once you’re set up. Even if I have to polyjuice. And I can see the inside, when you’re not open. I can see the flat.”

Even in the wandlight, Harry could see George’s eyes darken. “Can’t wait.” Still, that couldn’t keep his giddy excitement off his face for long. “We’ve got so many ideas for when we’re done with school. New stuff to work on. Things we’ve thought about for _years_ but never had the time or the space or the money.” He let out an incredulous huff of breath. “How is this real, Harry? I’m gonna get everything I’ve ever wanted in the space of about six months. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“You deserve it,” Harry insisted. “I’m a bit jealous, to be honest.” George eyed him in bafflement. “It’s like you said; you guys have wanted this since you were kids. You’ve always known what you want to do. I’ve got no bloody clue.” He sighed to himself. “Don’t even know what I _can_ do. The only thing I’ve ever been allowed to focus on is fighting Voldemort, really. No room to think about what might come after that.” Ever since his time at Gringotts with Bill’s team, he’d been wondering what he wanted to do with his life. If he wanted to be an auror, or a cursebreaker, or something else entirely. If he would be allowed to do any of those things in Britain, or if he’d have to move just to be considered qualified.

If he’d even survive long enough for it to matter.

“That’s normal, though,” George assured him. “Most people don’t have a clue when they’re fifteen. Freddie and I are the odd ones out, there.”

“I should have _some_ idea, though.”

“Why?” George asked plaintively. “Like you said, you haven’t ever really been given the chance to find out. How can you decide when you’ve no idea what your options are?”

“Some decisions can be made without seeing all the options. You just know. Like you and Fred, with the joke shop.” Harry doubted the twins had known every option available to them before they decided on their joke shop dream at the age of six or seven.

He watched as George bit his lip, fighting a large smile, eyes bright. “Good to hear you don’t always need options before making your mind up.” His gaze was intent. It took a second for Harry’s frazzled brain to catch the insinuation, and when he did, he flushed.

“Like I said,” he mumbled, smiling back tentatively. “You just know.” His heart thudded against his ribs.

“Yeah,” George agreed in a husky whisper. “I know.” He rolled onto his other side, adjusting his pillow. “You’ve got all the time in the world to decide what you want to do with your life, Harry. You could do a dozen different things, if you wanted. Or you could kick back, do nothing at all, and live off all the galleons that’ll flood your vaults from your wise teenage investment in a joke shop,” he added with a wink. Harry snorted.

“Like I wouldn’t put all that money straight back in your vault. I’ve got the Potter money.”

“We can have that argument when you inherit,” George dismissed cheekily. “But really, it’s fine to not know. I know there’s all this pressure to try and figure it out before you’ve left school, but honestly — wizards live for ages. You could have five different careers before you’re old enough to retire. And if you’re worried about the Ministry, well, fuck them — not many will say no to you when you’ve got ‘ _defeated a Dark Lord’_ on your resume.” Before Harry could argue that point, George hushed him. “And I promise, if you still feel like you need to do something, you can come work in the shop for as long as you like, whenever you like. While you take time to figure things out.” His grin grew bolder. Harry’s stomach fluttered. “We’ll even let you live in the flat, if you want to get away from those godfathers of yours, wherever they end up when Padfoot’s a free man.”

“Thought you said it was just a two-bed?” Harry returned, his own bravery rising. Everything was so much easier in the dark, with the barrier of the mirror between them. Sometimes it felt like Harry could say _anything_.

“We’ll sort something out.”

A thrill shot down Harry’s spine. The fluttering in his stomach was almost overwhelming, now. He was sure that if there hadn’t been the barrier of the mirror between them, the reminder that they were not actually lying in the dark together, he would have reached out. He would have crossed some lines.

“I think I’d like that,” he whispered instead.

“That’s settled, then.” George paused for a beat, then smiled mischievously. “You can kip on our sofa.”

The snort that escaped Harry was loud and ungainly and embarrassing, and sent George into a fit of giggles.

“You git,” Harry muttered, feeling some of the heat from his belly rise to his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, gorgeous,” George soothed, blinking the laughter from his eyes. “That was mean.” A heavy silence fell between them. The tension felt so thick Harry half expected sparks to flicker at his fingertips. “We stay up talking much longer, I’m gonna say things I shouldn’t. Feel like I might’ve said too much already.” George eyed Harry cautiously, like an animal about to spook. Harry shuffled down to lie on his side, propping the mirror up on a pillow corner. Like this, it really did feel like they were in the same room. In the same bed.

“It’s okay,” he assured. His whole body was tingling, certain parts of him _far_ too awake for such a late hour, but he wasn’t scared. He was ready, he knew he was, for the things they shouldn’t say. It was just the stupid distance between them, stupid school, stupid Umbridge, stupid _life_. It felt unfair to say something when they couldn’t do anything about it, but that was the only reason he kept his mouth shut. Not because he didn’t want to cross that line, yet.

A yawn overtook him, his jaw cracking. George chuckled. “Merlin, that’s cute.” The whisper was so quiet, Harry wondered if he’d even intended to speak out loud. Then, louder; “You should go to sleep. We both should.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, though he made no move to end the call. “Not just yet, though. In a bit.”

Still, his eyes fluttered half-shut. George hummed in agreement. The ball of light Harry had conjured dimmed a little bit as his fatigue kicked in, but it didn’t go out completely.

Not until five minutes later, when Harry drifted off to sleep, mirror still active and a pair of sleepy brown eyes watching him, full of affection. When his room went dark, a soft chuckle sounded from the mirror, followed by a wistful sigh.

“Oh, one day. Soon, I hope.”

Then, the mirror went blank, reflecting nothing but Harry’s sleeping form in the pitch black room.


	20. Chapter 20

While the weather improved as late March brought the spring, it was all starting to blend together for Harry, endless days of training and waiting and visiting Death Eater meetings in his dreams. Whether Voldemort intentionally pulled Harry into them, or was unaware of how open the connection was these days, Harry couldn’t tell. He’d theorised with Bill that perhaps all their experimentation and testing on the horcrux in Harry’s scar might have increased the connection. He’d started practicing Occlumency thanks to instruction from Kingsley and a couple of books, but that didn’t seem to be helping, either.

The monotony was starting to wear on him. At least in Hogwarts, he’d had other people around to provide some sort of entertainment. Sirius and Remus were just as bored as he was, and talking to the twins just made him mad at Umbridge. He’d heard about the sacking of Professor Trelawney and her replacement in Firenze, but other than that Hogwarts seemed to be in an uneasy truce. Umbridge had practically run out of things to regulate with her Ministry decrees, and the twins were — for the most part — keeping their heads down.

That all changed one early April afternoon, when Harry was in the kitchen chopping vegetables with Remus, happily discussing the plot twists at the end of one of the books Harry had recently finished reading. All of a sudden, there was a flash of fire across the room.

Instinctively, Harry whipped around, knife raised ready to defend himself — only to stare in shock. Professor Dumbledore was in the kitchen with them, looking a little ruffled, and on his shoulder perched Fawkes the phoenix.

“Albus,” Remus greeted, eyebrows rising. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“I’m afraid not, Remus,” the bearded wizard replied. Harry felt his chest tighten in fear. “Fawkes, summon the Order, we need a meeting.” The phoenix crooned, then took off and stretched out his wings, disappearing in a blaze.

“What’s happened at the school?” Harry asked in alarm. The knife was still in his hand, and he set it on the cutting board sheepishly. Dumbledore’s lips pursed.

“I’m afraid your friends’ rather ingenious little study group has been discovered. The Minister was rather unimpressed by it all — I shall explain fully once the Order has arrived.”

Pulse racing, Harry forced himself not to react, his first instinct to run upstairs and grab the mirror, check that the twins were okay. What did Dumbledore mean, they had been discovered?

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Remus went to find Sirius while Harry put away the vegetables for later, and the Order began arriving in a steady trickle through the floo. All of them were grim-faced, which turned to alarm when they saw Dumbledore present. It was the middle of the school day. Usually, the Headmaster could only attend meetings late in the evenings or on weekends.

No one shooed Harry from the room this time, so he hopped up onto the counter to sit behind Tonks, seeing as the table was full. Dumbledore stood at the head of the room, hands clasped, Fawkes on his shoulder once more. Harry had to admit, he was quite the striking figure. He looked ready to speak, and Harry narrowed his eyes — Kingsley wasn’t there yet. Was he caught up in something? Did he already know what had happened?

“I am afraid that our fears have come to pass,” Dumbledore declared, bringing the room to a tense hush. “This afternoon, shortly before dinner, I had a visit from Minister Fudge and an accompaniment of aurors, prepared to expel and arrest Miss Hermione Granger and Mr Ronald Weasley for breaking Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Across the room, Molly Weasley whimpered. “Are they alright? Where are they?”

“They are unharmed,” Dumbledore assured. “And remain students of Hogwarts.” Several sets of eyes flicked towards Harry, and he resolutely did not let his expression change. Were they expecting him to be disappointed, that his friends had not been expelled too?

Calmly, Dumbledore relayed the events of the past hour — some Ravenclaw sixth year had told Umbridge about the DA, revealing the secret of the Room of Requirement and telling her there would be a meeting before dinner that very day. Naturally, Umbridge had been overjoyed with the information and contacted the Minister, prepared to ambush the meeting and expel every single one of them. Luckily, the DA had been warned by Dobby, and had tried to scatter before Umbridge could catch them.

Less luckily, Umbridge had roped several Slytherins in to helping, and their actions led to Ron and Hermione getting caught.

It turned out Hermione had done some sort of spell to prevent secrets being spilled — Dumbledore wasn’t clear on the specifics, but whatever she’d done meant that the Ravenclaw girl was completely silent when asked to repeat her story in front of the Minister, leaving very little evidence for Umbridge to work with. Only Umbridge had gone into the Room after the DA had fled, and found their sign-up sheet.

“Dolores was quite keen to expel every student on the list — Miss Granger and Mr Weasley in particular — but it seemed they had decided to name themselves ‘Dumbledore’s Army,” the headmaster said with a quiet chuckle. “Rather flattering, indeed. Naturally, I could not allow the students to suffer for what was _so clearly_ my doing, with my name at the top of the sheet. I let Fudge believe that I had been the one to gather the students and set them to begin training each other for war, and he decided to have me arrested.”

With perfect timing, the floo flared green that very moment, and Kingsley stepped through. He was still wearing his auror robes, and he looked around in alarm — then caught Dumbledore’s eye, and chuckled. “Very good show, Albus,” he complimented. “You should have seen the look on Cornelius’ face when Fawkes took you out of your office.”

“Are my friends alright?” Harry cut in impatiently. Kingsley offered him a weary smile.

“They might have one hell of a detention schedule, but they’re fine.”

Everyone in the room looked relieved, and Harry knew immediately that they were completely unaware of the nature of Umbridge’s detentions. His stomach churned.

“That’s not fine! She’ll shred their hands bloody! Who’s in charge of the school now?”

“The Minister has decreed Dolores to be the new headmistress; I believe the announcement will be in the morning paper.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, shred their hands? What have you been keeping from us, Potter?”

“They told me not to tell anyone,” Harry retorted. “No one wanted to put the headmaster in a difficult position. Bit late for that now, though,” he spat. He told the Order of the awful black quills Umbridge used on kids in detention, relaying everything the twins had told him — including what she’d done to that poor Hufflepuff first year. By the time he’d finished, everyone in the room was aghast. Even Dumbledore was looking rather ill.

“How the fuck did she get her hands on Blood Quills?” Bill Weasley roared furiously. “They’re supposed to be for legal documents and ritual use only! They’re not tools of punishment; how is this not regulated?”

“She lives in Fudge’s pocket, she can do what she likes,” Sirius snarled. Beside him, Remus’ eyes were glowing faintly gold.

“If I told my boss…” Bill trailed off, still scowling. “Gringotts didn’t want the Ministry to have access to Blood Quills to begin with. They’ve no need when the goblins handle contracts like that.”

For a minute, Harry daydreamed about what might happen if the Goblin Nation came for Umbridge. He’d like to see that.

“I had no idea,” Dumbledore breathed, his face the colour of milk behind his beard. “Oh, those poor students… I continue to fail them without even realising.” He turned to Harry, blue eyes glimmering with tears. “Why did you not tell me sooner? Surely your grudge does not extend this far, my boy?”

“It’s not a grudge,” Harry insisted with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a difference of opinion, Jesus. And what could you have done if I’d told you? If anyone had told any of the teachers? The Ministry have been breathing down your neck since the school year began — if Umbridge has those quills, you can bet Fudge gave her permission. If you’d known you would have just tried to do something, and they’d have kicked you out of the school months ago.” His lips twisted in a bitter smirk. “Your students are far more resilient than you give them credit for, Headmaster. Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott have been harvesting murtlap tentacles out of the Black Lake since October; apparently they work a treat on the wounds.” Harry was so proud of his classmates, banding together to take care of their own. “Umbridge couldn’t risk putting the same people in detention too often, or their records would flag in your office. Merlin knows how bad it’ll be now you’re gone.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s lips pursed, face still stricken with grief. “We can only hope that resilience is enough to keep them safe until the end of the school year. I will try and get word to Minerva and the other heads of house, see if there is anything they can do about the detentions. I have faith in the rest of my staff. However… with Dolores in charge, they may not remain staff much longer.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy. Mrs Weasley had tear-tracks down her cheeks and a death grip on her husband’s arm. Harry’s heart ached for her — to know her children were stuck there with that _monster_ , it couldn’t be easy.

“They were supposed to be safe,” Mr Weasley muttered, pale-faced. “Of all places for them, Hogwarts was supposed to be safe.”

“I am truly sorry, Arthur,” Dumbledore sighed. “I wish I could have done more to protect them. Had I seen any way to keep my position as headmaster without sacrificing the entirety of Dumbledore’s Army in doing so, I would have done it. But I could not stand by and see thirty-six students expelled.” His eyes returned to Harry. “Not having already failed one this year.”

Harry didn’t argue with him. Sure, he might be benefiting from his expulsion, but there was no use denying that Dumbledore’s presence at his trial would have changed everything.

“So what do we do now, Albus?” Emmeline Vance asked, breaking the silence that followed.

“Now, we wait and see what the Ministry will do next, and we prepare ourselves for the worst,” Dumbledore replied. “Given the track record of our Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, it seems highly unlikely that Dolores Umbridge will be teaching the subject come next year. How that comes to pass, however…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Harry swallowed anxiously.

She wouldn’t be teaching the subject if she was permanently instated as headmistress. Or if she got the school shut down altogether. For once, the supposed curse on the subject was not a reassurance.

“Mr Potter,” Dumbledore piped up, and Harry glanced over. “You seem to have some awareness of what goes on inside the school, from a perspective neither I nor any staff can manage. Do let us know if there is anything we can make moves to prevent, won’t you, now?”

He didn’t ask Harry to give up his means of communication, and Harry was glad for it. Instead, he simply nodded.

After that, there was little for the Order to talk about. Indeed, they all seemed to be somewhat in shock. The meeting began to disperse, and Dumbledore made his way over to Harry’s side. “You will likely be our ear to the ground among the students, Harry; however you have means to communicate with your friends. I am unsure how often I will be able to get word from Minerva.”

“I don’t know if I can offer anything useful, but I’ll do what I can,” he promised. Truthfully he wasn’t sure what _any_ of them could do, except wait and see what fate befell Umbridge as this year’s DADA victim. “Have a little faith in the students, though. They’ve survived a lot.” Especially the kids who had been at the school since his first year. Even if they hadn’t been involved in half the adventures he had on campus, they’d still had to put up with a teacher possessed by Voldemort, a basilisk loose in the school, dementors guarding the perimeter, and a Death Eater in disguise as a teacher for a year.

They were a hardy lot, this generation of Hogwarts students. They would be okay.

“I am starting to realise that,” Dumbledore agreed, looking pensive. A sudden thought popped into Harry’s mind.

“Will you be staying here? Since you can’t be at school?” he asked, stomach sinking at the prospect of sharing the house with the headmaster — ex-headmaster, now, he supposed. He’d gotten quite used to having the man’s nose out of his business, and with things for the ritual starting to come together, he didn’t want Dumbledore getting involved.

“Oh, heavens, no,” Dumbledore assured, chuckling. “Going into hiding is exactly what Cornelius is hoping I’ll do, and I’d hate to prove him right. The least I can do is make him regret dislodging me from Hogwarts.” His blue eyes flashed with the kind of determination that made it easy for Harry to see why he’d gained such a following over the years. “You say my students will fight from within school walls. Well, Harry; I must do my part, and fight from without.”

“Good.” Harry smirked viciously. “Give them hell, Headmaster.”

“You know, my boy — as you have pointed out on many occasions, I am no longer your headmaster. Indeed, I am no longer _anyone’s_ headmaster.” Dumbledore’s lips quirked briefly. “You may call me Albus, if you wish.”

It sounded like an apology, an olive branch extended. Harry doubted it would be that simple — there was too much the man still had to answer for, too much controlling he was still trying to do. But it was a start; if nothing else, it would have the elder wizard beginning to think of them as equals.

“If you insist, Albus.” The name felt strange on his tongue. Weirdly, it was easier to call Dumbledore by his first name than either of the Weasley parents. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go check something.”

Dumbledore, probably at least vaguely aware of what it was Harry could possibly need to check, nodded and straightened up, heading to talk to Sirius and Tonks. Harry slipped out of the kitchen, racing upstairs to his bedroom.

“George Weasley,” he said into the mirror, knowing by now which of the twins would be keeping the mirror. The glass went cloudy for several long minutes — at last, his call was answered, and two identical faces peered back at them. They had dark circles beneath their eyes, and George could barely even muster up a smile for him.

“Is he with you?” Fred asked knowingly. Harry nodded.

“How bad is the fallout?”

The twins, squeezed together on George’s bed, told him about the moment Dobby had burst into the DA’s session of Patronus practice.

“Ron and Hermione were the only ones to get caught,” Fred said with a grimace. “Bloody typical. Umbridge still had the sign-up sheet, though.”

“Everyone on the list has a week’s detention,” George supplied. “Naturally, us Gryffindors are up first. I don’t know how many of those damned quills she has but they’re all going to be getting plenty of use.”

The only bright spot in it all was Umbridge going up to claim the headmaster’s office for her own, only for the gargoyle to refuse to let her in.

“She spent ages stood there cursing the thing,” Fred told him, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips. “Seems the school isn’t a fan in the change of regime either.”

“Well, it’ll be official by morning,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was a knock on his door, and he froze. “Who is it?”

“Just me, cub. I brought up dinner.” Relaxing, Harry waved a hand to open the door, inviting Remus into the room. The werewolf held a tray with a steaming plate of food and a tall glass of juice — and a small piece of chocolate cake. Harry eyed the treat, wondering where the hell that had come from, and Remus gave a sheepish grin. “I keep a stash for emergencies. Rather thought this qualified. Oh, hello, boys,” he added, realising Harry had the mirror out.

“Alright, Moony,” George greeted. “How’re you doing?”

“Better than you two, I’d imagine,” Remus replied. He perched on the edge of the bed beside Harry, waving at the twins. “Congratulations on the new shop, by the way. Harry mentioned it the other week.”

That brought actual grins to their faces. “Thanks. We’d love to see you there once it opens. Marauder’s discount,” Fred promised with a wink. Remus chuckled.

“Looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll even bring my pet dog,” he remarked dryly. He turned to Harry, running an affectionate hand over his hair. “Eat. There’s more cake in the pantry if you want it — I won’t blame you if you do,” he added playfully. “I’ll leave you to it. Look after yourselves, boys.”

The twins saluted, and Remus left the room. Harry used a bit of magic to keep the mirror in front of his face while he ate. “So have the DA disbanded?” he asked, brows furrowed. The twins shrugged.

“Not really sure. No one wants to give it up, of course, but now Umbridge knows about the Room…” George trailed off. “Hermione’s been the driving force behind it all, really, so we’ll see what she can come up with.”

“We’re a bit worried about her. She’s never had a detention before, let alone one with Umbridge,” Fred added conspiratorially. “She’s not taking it too well.”

“Not about the quills, mind,” George said, rolling her eyes. “Just about her _future prospects_.”

“Surely she’s not worried about her school record, even now?” Harry asked, though he already knew the answer. It was Hermione, _of course_ she was worried about her record.

“Maybe it’s a good thing.” George shrugged. “Breaking the seal, of a sorts. Once she’s got a week’s detentions on her record, she won’t blink at getting a few more. Quite honestly, all you three have gotten into before now, I’m amazed it’s taken nearly five years.”

Harry was pretty surprised, too. He and Ron had both had detentions in first year; Harry hadn’t gone more than a month between them before he’d gotten expelled. Usually thanks to Snape.

“We’ll see,” he murmured. A year ago he would have said the only thing detention would inspire in Hermione was a total breakdown, but a year ago he wouldn’t have expected her to start an underground student rebellion, either. “Any idea what Umbridge is making her write?” Ron already had his; Harry had caught sight of the scar over Christmas. _I must not argue with authority_. As if Ron would take that as anything other than a challenge.

Both twins shook their heads. The thing with the quill was that in order for Umbridge’s message to _sink in_ appropriately, it had to be the same lines written every detention, no matter what the cause. Harry’s stomach squirmed anxiously when he thought about what his friends might have carved on the backs of their hands; even with the murtlap tentacles, it still tended to leave a permanent scar after five or six detentions.

“I suppose we’ll just have to see how bad it can get,” George sighed eventually.

“See how long we can stand it,” Fred agreed. Harry ducked his gaze to his plate — the twins were running out of good enough reasons to stay put, at this point.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The big one. The one we've all been waiting for.
> 
> We're about to earn that M rating, friends, so buckle up ;)

Harry wasn’t surprised when it finally happened.

He didn’t hear from the twins much, in the weeks following Dumbledore’s flight from Hogwarts. When they weren’t in classes, they were in detention — or helping distribute murtlap essence to those who had also been in detention. Sometimes, he would stay up late just to talk to George, but it broke Harry’s heart to watch the pain and frustration in those brown eyes grow every day

It seemed like with Dumbledore out of the way, everyone wanted to show their displeasure with their new headmistress. The only people who were actually enjoying her appointment was her Inquisitorial Squad; a group of students — mostly Slytherins — who she had given powers even above prefects to. Gryffindor was almost entirely out of house points, from the sounds of it. And the student body was retaliating.

Skiving Snackboxes were used. All manner of potions were slipped into Umbridge’s tea or poured over her belongings. She and Filch were constantly running back and forth all over the castle in search of troublemakers, and her office apparently had a constant stink of dungbombs.

Harry would have found it hilarious, if not for one major problem; she was blaming _everything_ on the twins.

Not even just those incidents that could be traced back to their products. Every little thing that misfired or malfunctioned in her vicinity, every prank spell used, every rude word graffiti-ed on her classroom wall — as far as Umbridge was concerned, the twins were responsible for all of it.

At first, they hadn’t minded, George insisted. They were used to being in trouble; if it kept everyone else safe, they were happy to take the fall. But when the detentions became so bad they were having to brew their own blood-replenishing potions to avoid passing out in class, they had to draw a line. Harry could tell, every time he spoke to them, that the moment was coming.

And on the last day of April, they finally cracked.

Harry had taken to carrying the mirror around with him at all times, knowing he was likely the fastest direct contact with the Order available. It had helped, catching George briefly between classes, trying to cheer him up or offer support the best he could — or using the map to help him and Fred avoid Umbridge. He hadn’t heard anything for a couple of days, though; and that had been a call to tell him that, according to the rumour mill, Filch was close to being approved to bring back physical punishment. The look in George’s eyes still haunted Harry’s dreams; when he wasn’t stuck in Death Eater meetings or the corridor at the Ministry, of course.

One afternoon when he was going over some Potions’ notes with Remus, the mirror began to vibrate in his pocket. Harry felt like he’d been plunged into ice water, scrambling to answer the call. Immediately, he knew that something big had happened.

George was not anywhere that Harry recognised. It was hard to see much of his surroundings, but he knew there was nowhere with that striped wallpaper at Hogwarts. George’s hair was messy, his eyes wild. “Harry, I’m sorry,” he began, somewhat breathless. “I know I said I’d leave the mirror with the others, but things got a bit chaotic and I totally forgot it was in my pocket and there wasn’t time—“

“George, slow down.” Giving a worried glance to Remus, Harry jumped to his feet and ducked out into the hallway for some privacy. “What’s happened? Where are you?”

“At the flat,” George told him. “We left. We had to — it was torture, Harry, we just— we couldn’t take it anymore. We wanted to stay, to take care of everyone, but Filch was talking about _whipping_ and we’ve barely slept in days and Fred’s hand won’t stop _bleeding_ , we just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Heart in his throat, Harry shushed the redhead soothingly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I don’t blame you for getting out of there, Christ, you’ve put up with so much.” The tears in George’s eyes made Harry’s heart break. “You’re at the flat, you said? Over the shop?” George nodded. “Is the floo open?”

“Yeah, the guy came a couple days ago, what—“

“Give me two minutes. Hang on.” Harry hung up the call, pushing open the library door to see Remus sat in his armchair with his brows knitted together in worry. “I’m going out. The twins— George—“

“I understand,” Remus assured. “Go. Make sure they’re alright.”

Harry shot him a grateful smile, then sprinted downstairs to the kitchen, reaching for the floo powder on the mantle. He tossed it into the flames, barely waiting for them to turn green before stepping in. “Number 93, Diagon Alley!” he called out clearly. The world spun, and he was soon being spat out into a somewhat bare living room with striped wallpaper.

“Harry!” Fred went wide-eyed at the sight of him, where he was stood in the kitchen just off the living room, a rag wrapped around his right hand. George was sat on the single sofa in the room, but he jumped to his feet at Harry’s entry.

“Are you two alright?” Harry asked urgently, green gaze flicking between the pair.

“We’re fine,” Fred insisted. It was a definite lie — he was bleeding through the rag already, and he was gaunt with lack of sleep. George didn’t look much better; there was a cut on his jaw that he didn’t seem to have even noticed, bleeding sluggishly down onto his shirt collar. They were both still in their school uniforms, though their robes had been ditched in a heap next to the sofa, looking oddly soggy.

Harry went to Fred first, removing the rag and almost gagging at the shredded mess of flesh on the back of his hand, the words ‘ _I must not cause trouble’_ bored in almost to the bone. He began casting every healing spell he could think of, going from the basics right up to the one Kingsley had taught him specifically for dark magic inflicted wounds. That was the only thing to make a difference — the skin was still raw and painful-looking, but at least it had stopped bleeding.

“George, where’s yours?” He turned, gaze seeking out George’s right hand. It wasn’t as bad as Fred’s, but it was still pretty gruesome. George was silent as Harry gently took his hand in his left, casting with his right until the wounds started to knit closed. Then he raised his hand, cupping the redhead’s jaw and murmuring a healing charm for the cut there. That one disappeared instantly, leaving only the trace of blood on his shirt and neck. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

George shook his head numbly. “What— what are you doing here?”

Harry’s heart broke that little bit further. He squeezed George’s hand softly. If he hugged the older boy, he might not ever let go. “Here to see you, you daft git,” he replied with a halfhearted smile.

For the first time, he noticed the pair of brooms propped up against the wall — one of which was still dragging a hefty looking chain. He swallowed thickly. “I’ll make tea. You two sit down, tell me everything.”

While he busied his trembling hands with the kettle, Fred and George relayed the tale of their escape. From the sounds of things, they’d used every last bit of their bravado making a fool of Umbridge on their way out, and now the adrenaline was starting to fade.

“A swamp, in the middle of the Charms corridor?” Harry repeated incredulously. “I— how the hell did you manage that?”

“We’re geniuses, remember?” George pointed out with a wink. He was starting to come back to himself, thanks to a cup of tea and a sit down. “We knew we were gonna have to go out with a bang, and, well, we’d been saving that one for a little while. It’s a masterpiece, honestly Harry, I wish you could see it.” He brightened up, grinning. “Umbridge was _furious_ , I thought she was going to have a stroke.”

“It sounds brilliant.” Harry grinned back. “So what made today the day?” They’d put up with so much… what had been the last straw?

The pair shared a grim look. “Hermione needed a distraction,” Fred volunteered.

“No idea what for. Something about Hagrid; she clammed up when we asked,” George added.

“Originally we were just gonna set off some fireworks and give Peeves some Permanent Paint Pellets, let him have at it—“

“But then Filch started wailing about his whipping permits, and we knew we’d be in for it if we stayed.” George shuddered. Harry reached over to squeeze his knee.

“So we grabbed the swamp, packed our bags, and made our grand escape. Let a nice broom-shaped hole in Umbridge’s office wall, too.” Fred grinned widely. “We’ll go down in Hogwarts history with that,” he said with a wistful sigh.

Harry smiled back — despite the circumstances, he was glad the twins made their mark on their way out. He wished he could have a pensieve memory of the whole affair. Maybe he’d have to ask Ginny over the summer; from their recounting of things, the youngest Weasley had a front row seat to the chaos. “Sounds brilliant,” he enthused. “Maybe next time she’ll think twice about messing with Weasleys.”

He wondered what Hermione was up to — and what Hagrid had to do with it — but there was no point torturing himself with questions, now. With the twins gone, he had no way of knowing anything that was happening in Hogwarts.

“We’re sorry about the mirror, though,” Fred added, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. George frowned.

“Yeah. I just got so used to having it in my pocket, it completely slipped my mind until we were already flying over Glasgow.” He offered Harry an apologetic smile. “I’m sure we can figure out a way to get it to them.”

“Possibly.” At this point, he wasn’t sure what would be safe, and he didn’t dare risk his friends any more than they already faced.

Not wanting to dwell on it, he glanced around at the flat. It was clear the twins hadn’t done more than dump their trunks in a corner by what appeared to be the front door, but it was a decent-sized living room, with a surprisingly spacious kitchen attached and room for a dining table that could probably fit six. Not quite the space for a full Weasley family gathering, but better than most London flats. Wizard space was a wonderful thing. There was a small hallway opposite the kitchen, with three doors and a spiral staircase going up into the attic.

“So this is your new home, is it?” he drawled, pointedly eyeing the place over. George jumped to his feet, holding out his arms in an exaggerated ‘ta-da’ motion.

“It will be once we’ve had a minute with it! Really, Harry; awfully rude of you to just invite yourself over like that,” he joked. “Not even given us the chance to unpack!” There was a faint tremble to his tone, and he was talking just a touch faster than usual — he was nervous, Harry realised with a jolt.

Heat flared in his belly as the situation began to set in, his worry fading now he’d seen for himself that the twins were mostly in one piece. They were out of Hogwarts; abandoning their final year of school, giving a big fuck-you to NEWTs, and ready to start work on their shop.

His pulse began to race, fingertips tingling.

“Hey, Fred?” he started casually, glancing at the twin closest to him. “Mind giving us a minute?”

The smirk that slid onto Fred’s face was positively _scandalous_ , and he offered a jaunty salute. “Right you are, mate — I’m gonna, ah, head downstairs and check what kind of stock we’ve got saved up already.”

In seconds, he was gone, his footsteps fading on the stairs down to the shop. Harry slowly stood up, glancing over at George. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. The redhead was eyeing him carefully, chocolate brown gaze trying to hide the cautious spark of hope.

Harry took three strides across the room, and kissed him.

Everything he’d kept pent up in the last nine months — longer, even — suddenly rushed through him like an explosion, every nerve singing as he pulled George’s face down to his, tongue sliding between parted lips. He needed _more_ , he kept walking, George stumbling as he was pushed all the way back until he hit the striped wall with a thud, the kiss not breaking for a second. Harry pressed so close to him it was like he was trying to become part of him, arching up into him, moaning softly as George’s hand buried itself in his hair, tilting his head for a better angle. Harry slid both hands down the redhead’s ribs, one moving down to his backside and with a sneaky bit of magic to help keep them balanced he had George’s feet off the ground, hands gripping his thighs, holding him pinned against the wall at just the right height for Harry to get the advantage.

His head was spinning, everything within him screaming George’s name, one of the redhead’s strong arms curved up behind his back and pulling him ever closer. George let out a faint whimper that went straight to Harry’s cock, already rigid against the inside of George’s thigh, an answering hardness pressing against his stomach.

They only parted when oxygen became a problem, gasping as they parted, George’s nose sliding against Harry’s cheek as Harry pressed a trail of kisses across the redhead’s jaw. By now he had one hand on the redhead’s backside holding him up, the other cupping his face, and he let his thumb stroke the small cluster of freckles at George’s temple. “Hi,” he greeted breathlessly, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across his lips. _God_ , he’d needed that.

George blinked owlishly at him. He glanced down, where his legs were still locked around Harry’s hips, Harry’s arm barely even straining at the weight of him. “That was so hot I think I might die,” he croaked, pupils blown wide. “Are you— fuck, Harry, you used to be scrawny.” He tilted his head for another kiss, humming softly.

“I’ve been keeping busy this year,” Harry whispered in reply when they parted again, smirking. Thanks to his pseudo-auror training, scrawny Harry Potter was long gone. He’d never be as built as George, with his muscles from years as a beater, but he held a lot of muscle in his lithe limbs now. Muscle enough to pick up his taller boyfriend and slam him against a wall, apparently. Good to know.

George’s expression softened, a dazed smile crossing his face as he met Harry’s lust-glazed eyes. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, and Harry’s heart almost leapt from his chest at the fond look on the redhead’s face. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too.” It was even better to feel him, to hold him, to _kiss_ him. Harry would like to do a whole lot more of that. “Which door’s your room?”

George wiggled his eyebrows salaciously. “Steady on, there,” he teased, then chuckled. “S’pose we have earned it. First on the left.”

Expecting to be set back on his feet, George yelped when Harry pulled him away from the wall, carrying him the few steps to the door in the hallway. A single thought had the door slamming wide open, and the only thing Harry noticed about the room was that it had a bed — a double, with a plain white sheet covering it, and he was glad for that as he tossed George down on the mattress and scrambled to join him, straddling the redhead’s hips.

“You are a lot friskier than I was expecting, Potter,” George gasped, tilting his head back as Harry sucked a kiss against the hollow of his throat. His large hands tugged at Harry’s shirt, rucking it up at the back and trailing up the bare skin beneath, blunt nails scrabbling for purchase on Harry’s shoulders. Harry, frustrated by George’s red and gold tie blocking his way, vanished the thing in annoyance and started working on the few shirt buttons that weren’t quite obstructed by his jumper.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Weasley,” Harry retorted, pulling back to try and wrestle the knitwear over George’s head. George wriggled out of it, then gave a devious smile and yanked the bottom of Harry’s shirt up, all the way over his head. Harry was glad he’d put contacts in for a duel with Moody that morning; there were no glasses to get tangled in the fabric, and he could pull his arms from the sleeves and toss it across the room. He grinned down at George, who was wide-eyed, his hands immediately moving to run up Harry’s chest.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed hoarsely. Then, the next thing Harry knew he was being flipped over, his back hitting the sheet while George tangled their legs together, smirking triumphantly. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, right there.” He leaned down, kissing a path up Harry’s sternum, flicking fingers over pebbled brown nipples and smirking against tan skin at the gasp it produced. Harry was lost to the redhead’s touch, his cock pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans, head thrown back in lust. When George sat up a little to adjust his hips, Harry reached up, running a hand down the front of his white shirt and watching the buttons pop open one by one, revealing pale, freckled skin with a fine dusting of bright red hair. When the shirt fell open completely, Harry sat up to yank it off, keeping George in his lap. The position pressed them together at the crotch, and sparks burst behind Harry’s eyelids, his body flooding with pleasure. It was glorious, better than anything he’d ever felt alone, but it wasn’t _quite_ enough, and his gripped George’s shoulders and kissed him aggressively, bucking up into him.

“Hang on,” George gasped, and with a bit of manhandling they were both lying down, George on top of Harry, one leg between his so Harry could clamp his thighs around George and rut against him, seeking that perfect friction. George was doing the same, hardness pressing against Harry’s hip, low gasps and cut-off moans issuing from his lips. Feeling the pressure build, Harry searched blindly for George’s face, gripping his jaw and pulling him into a bruising kiss just as every nerve in his body exploded in bliss, his spine arching and his free hand curled around the back of George’s belt. George let out a cry, going tense as his own release hit him, fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders.

They slumped against each other, George still mostly-covering Harry, and Harry let his eyes fall shut and his head rest against the mattress, the weight of the redhead on top of him feeling like everything he had been missing since Christmas. There was a rapidly cooling mess in his boxers, but he didn’t care, running gentle fingers up George’s spine and into his hair.

“Blimey,” George breathed, pulling back to look Harry in the eyes, astounded.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. His limbs were jelly, warmth flooding his veins, George’s skin sticking to his with sweat. He hadn’t known it could feel this good. He grinned languidly. “How’s that for a welcome home?”

George stared at him, then huffed out a laugh, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “You absolute marvel,” he declared in a whisper so awed and affectionate it made Harry’s heart jolt. He chuckled, the sound vibrating against Harry’s throat. “Merlin, Harry, we could’ve been doing that since Christmas. Since _summer_.”

Harry thought about what that might have been like, if he’d thrown caution to the wind and discovered this absolute _heaven_ back when he’d first arrived at Grimmauld Place. “If I’d known what this felt like and then had to let you go back to school, I think it might’ve killed me,” he replied honestly. George shifted to glance up at him, gaze knowing.

“Yeah. You’re not wrong.” With a grimace, he sat up ever so slightly. “Where’d you chuck my wand at?”

“No idea.” Harry guessed his problem and waved his hand, vanishing the mess in both their trousers. George jumped at the sensation, then grinned.

“Convenient.” He shuffled back a little, propping himself up on one hand as his hungry gaze travelled over Harry’s body. His lips quirked. “You didn’t even stop to put shoes on, you nutter.”

Harry looked down at his sock-clad feet, then grinned sheepishly. “I wanted to see you. I’d waited long enough.” He hadn’t even thought about shoes when he’d ended that mirror call, just wanting to get to George as quickly as possible and make sure he was alright.

George’s eyes softened, his free hand reaching to stroke Harry’s cheek. “Yeah.” He bit his lip tentatively. “We can talk about it now, yeah? I can say stuff?”

Harry rather thought that after what they’d just done, the lines had been well and truly crossed. “We can talk about it,” he confirmed. He sighed guiltily. “I’m sorry I made you wait, I just—“ He was cut off by a firm kiss, George’s fingers curving around his jaw.

“Don’t you dare,” the redhead murmured against his lips. “I was waiting, too. We were on the same page, the whole time. Even when it was difficult. Even when I didn’t want to wait.” He pushed Harry’s hair back from his forehead, and his eyes didn’t linger even for a second on the scar the whole world tripped over themselves for a glimpse at. He was too focused on Harry’s emerald green eyes. “I’m absolutely mad about you, Harry Potter.”

It wasn’t a surprise. George’s eyes, his actions, had been saying as much for months, even when his voice was silent. But to hear it aloud for the first time, Harry’s heart stuttered. “I’m sort-of completely obsessed with you, George Weasley,” he replied, those words that had been sitting in his chest since the Quidditch World Cup at least.

George beamed at him, leaning down for another firm kiss. “Glad we got that settled, then,” he declared.

Harry beamed back. He was so happy he thought he might explode.


	22. Chapter 22

George lay back down beside Harry, and they stared at each other in total silence, like a couple of besotted little idiots, for what had to be several minutes. It felt like all that time Harry had spent talking to George through the mirror, except _better_ , because now instead of just wishing he could reach out and touch the redhead, he could _actually do that_. And he did, stretching one arm to rest on George’s side, gentle fingers stroking the soft skin there. George’s grin widened. “I can’t believe this is real,” he confessed in a whisper. “I feel like I’m gonna wake up back at Hogwarts with the mirror on the pillow beside me and realise this was just another dream.”

“Have a lot of dreams that go this way, do you?” Harry asked, earning a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, only every other night since Christmas,” George replied. “Though I’ll admit, you weren’t quite so fiesty in my dreams. You little minx.”

Harry blushed; he had been rather forward, more so than he’d expected of himself. He’d just been wanting to kiss George for _so long_ , everything sort-of spilled out at once. He said as much, and George leaned in to kiss him.

“Not as long as I have, I’ll bet,” he murmured. Harry raised an eyebrow. Now that they were finally putting words to the feelings they’d had for so long, he felt the urge to just tell George _everything_ , all the things he’d been keeping bottled up that whole time.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know about that. You were my sexual awakening,” he teased. “I had my first ever wet dream about you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “We were in the showers in the quidditch changing room.”

“You utter cliche, Potter,” George retorted, making Harry snort. “I’m honoured. But that doesn’t mean you wanted to kiss me — not like you did just now.”

He was right, to be fair; it had taken a little while for Harry to come to terms with things — first liking _boys_ ; then liking his best mate’s older brother in particular. Second year had made him aware of the concept of being attracted to people, but third year was really where he’d started to crush hard on George Weasley.

“For me, it was summer before fifth year — when we got back from Egypt and found you at the Leaky Cauldron, and you looked like you’d actually _enjoyed_ part of your summer for the first time ever, and you’d grown a bit taller and a bit cheekier and I remember this moment, sat watching you talk to Ron at dinner one night, and I could just _see_ what kind of bloke you’d turn out like when you hit sixteen or seventeen and had the confidence you ought to have, and you smiled and it hit me like a bludger to the stomach that I wanted you to smile at me like that, forever.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, wondering what night that might have been, what he was doing at the time, what he’d done to set off that spark within George. He’d had no idea the older boy’s feelings went so far back. “We’ll call it even, then,” he allowed. George leaned in for a kiss, nipping playfully at his lower lip.

“If you insist.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I _also_ remember the morning we left for the Quidditch World Cup, half-asleep and getting dressed with all four of us crammed in Ron’s room, and I turned around to grab my shirt and you were staring at me with this _look_ in your eyes and I realised you wouldn’t actually say no if I asked to kiss you.”

Harry remembered that, too — remembered the pounding in his chest as George’s gaze locked with his, the absolute surety that he’d been caught ogling, that he’d embarrassed himself beyond saving and George would hate him forever. Then the tiny, pleased smile that had flickered across George’s lips, before he turned away and reached for his shirt and never said a word.

From that moment, the pair had been like magnets, edging closer and closer, but still never admitting to anything.

“Why didn’t you? Ask, I mean,” Harry queried, curious to know what had stopped the older boy.

“I thought about it the rest of that summer, but we were all staying in the one room and I didn’t want to make things weird if I’d read the situation wrong,” George admitted. “Or, if I’d read things _right_ , have to try and figure it all out in front of my entire family. I could tell you fancied me, but I wasn’t sure if you were actually ready or even wanting to do anything about it, and I spent ages telling myself that I’d just test the waters and see if it was a passing thing for you or actually something, and _then_ ages trying to pluck up the courage to do something about it — then your name came out of that fucking goblet, and I reckoned you had enough on your plate without a potential sexuality crisis. You didn’t seem to mind me flirting with you, so I kept it at that,” he added with a wink. Harry chuckled — no, he definitely had not minded the flirting, once he’d figured out that it wasn’t just George teasing him about his crush.

George rolled onto his back, though his face stayed tilted towards Harry. Harry couldn’t help but let his gaze follow the trail of red hair down to the waistband of his trousers. And then he couldn’t help but reach out and touch, watching the muscles twitch under his fingertips. “I thought about you all last summer while I was stuck with my relatives,” he admitted. “When I wasn’t having nightmares about Cedric. I swear I must have thought about every single second I spent with you in fourth year, analysing it to try and be _sure_ that you liked me. I was dead set on asking you out. Once we got back to school.” His smile faltered. “And then I didn’t.”

“And then you didn’t,” George repeated with a wry, sad smile. He captured Harry’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together on his stomach. “Like I said, we’ve been on the same page this whole time. Even when we didn’t know we were. I knew the moment you got back from that trial that nothing would be happening between us until I was out of Hogwarts with you. I knew you wouldn’t be coming back to school like Ron thought you were.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured — he’d never said it, because they hadn’t been talking about this, but having George just _get it_ had been the only thing stopping him from punching things sometimes, in the weeks between his expulsion and the start of the school year.

“We got there in the end,” George pointed out. “Doesn’t matter how long it took.”

He squeezed Harry’s hand. Once again, Harry was hit by a powerful wave of adoration for the boy lying next to him.

“You’re perfect,” he blurted, watching the tips of George’s ears glow pink.

“You’re not so bad yourself, there,” came the reply, the redhead tilting his head down to press their lips together.

“And you’re _revolting_ , the pair of you.” They sprang apart, looking up to see Fred leaning in the open doorway. He was smirking like the cat that caught the canary, his gaze fond as he surveyed them. “About fucking time. But I can see we’re clearly going to need to have a talk about closing our doors,” he said pointedly, snickering when they both blushed. “I went out and got fish and chips — put your damned shirts on and come eat, then we can start making this place a proper home. Harry, we’ve seen what your magic can do, you’ve no excuse now. If you want to stay here and snog my brother, you’ll have to earn it first.”

“I could just go home and leave you to it,” Harry threatened. Fred laughed.

“No, you couldn’t,” he shot back knowingly. “ _‘You’re perfect’_ , Merlin, kill me now.” He retched exaggeratedly, then disappeared down the hall, cackling.

Harry felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and despite his own blush George was grinning. “Don’t let him fool you; he’s been rooting for us for years,” he assured, dropping one more kiss on Harry’s lips before dragging himself to his feet, bending down to pick his shirt up off the floor. Harry let his gaze linger on the redhead’s trouser-clad arse, which made George roll his eyes when he noticed. “You heard my brother — there’s food and unpacking waiting for us. Pull yourself together, man!” He grabbed Harry’s shirt and tossed it at him, doing up his buttons with one hand.

Harry groaned theatrically, but pulled his shirt over his head.

“Where’s my tie?” George asked curiously, peering around the near-empty room. Harry flushed sheepishly.

“Vanished it,” he admitted in a mumble. George’s answering laugh was loud.

“Absolute nutter,” he teased, practically dancing across the room to pull Harry to his feet. The shadows that had been hanging over him for the last several months at school had vanished in an instant — Harry absently wondered if it was the freedom from Umbridge, or the orgasm.

He hoped it was the orgasm.

True to his word, Fred had procured three portions of fish and chips and a six-pack of butterbeer, though due to the lack of furnishings they ate with the food on their laps, with cutlery Fred had transfigured from napkins. George and Harry sat pressed together on the sofa, and every couple of minutes their eyes would meet and they’d blush, smiling goofily at each other. After several instances of this, Fred rolled his eyes.

“This honeymoon period is going to be _awful_ , isn’t it?” he muttered despairingly. Harry tossed a chip at him.

“Shut up and let me bask,” he demanded, leaning into George’s shoulder. “I had my first kiss today, I’m allowed to be happy.”

Fred mimed vomiting into his dinner. George’s eyes went round. “I was— that was your first?” he asked, an odd hitch in his tone. Trying valiantly not to blush, Harry nodded. His first ever kiss… and firsts of a couple of other things, too. George’s eyes glazed over for a moment. “Blimey,” he murmured.

“I hate you both,” Fred declared. “I changed my mind, I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

Harry laughed, patting George’s cheek to try and snap him out of it. “Later,” he promised, winking. George’s throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply.

Before Fred could start hexing them, they did settle down and finish their dinner — Fred still couldn’t prevent the smiling-and-blushing situation, but he seemed to have resigned himself to it, and Harry could see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips when he thought the two of them weren’t looking.

He was pleased for his twin, he couldn’t hide it.

Once they’d eaten, Fred levitated in several boxes he said to have brought up from downstairs, and Harry began to realise just how thoroughly the Weasley twins had been planning this whole venture, and for how long.

“Here’s the stuff for your room,” Fred declared, nudging one box towards his brother. Harry peered into it, surprised to see several shrunken-down items he recognised from the twins’ room back at the Burrow.

“You packed up your whole room and your parents didn’t notice?” Harry asked incredulously. The pair shared a grin.

“Mum doesn’t go in our room,” George told him. “She’s too scared of what she might find.”

Thinking about it, Harry didn’t blame her. You’d have to be very brave or very stupid to enter the twins’ room without their presence or permission.

Out of the box of stuff, George pulled a Wizarding Wireless radio, resizing it and turning the dial until The Weird Sisters began blasting from the speakers.

“Right, Potter,” he said, reaching for another box and thrusting it at Harry. “You unshrink them, we’ll place them. Deal?”

Harry snatched his wrist before he could get too far away, reeling him in for a kiss. “Deal,” he confirmed, grinning. Little bubbles of giddy happiness rose in his chest — he could _do that_ now! Just grab George and kiss him if he wanted to! And no one could complain!

Well, except Fred. But neither of them cared about Fred’s complaints.

Before they started filling the place with furniture, the twins got to work on changing the decor a little more to their liking. The blue and bronze striped wallpaper that betrayed the place’s Ravenclaw previous owner was vanished, and replaced with a bold purple firework-patterned wallpaper on one wall, and pale purple-grey paint on the rest. George did some impressive spellwork to change the kitchen cabinets to a slate grey colour from the navy blue they had once been, though he kept the bronze handles and fixtures, and the wooden countertop.

“Make yourself useful, gorgeous,” he called, floating a box over towards Harry. “Start putting that stuff away, would you?” The box was full of crockery and cookware, holding far more than it initially appeared.

“When did you get the chance to buy all this stuff?” he asked in amazement, pulling out a whole rainbow worth of mugs.

“Oh, here and there,” Fred said, shrugging. “We’ve been planning to move out since you gave us your Triwizard winnings and we realised it’d be enough to get us started with a place.”

“At first we thought we’d be continuing the owl-order business out of whatever place we found to live,” George continued, using his wand to direct a paintbrush to cover the kitchen’s plain white wall with a rust-coloured paint that surprisingly didn’t clash. “So we snuck out of Grimmauld a few times over the summer, hit up second hand shops and the like. Bill gave us some stuff he’d brought back from his place in Egypt he said he wouldn’t need anymore. As the owl-order business got more and more lucrative, we realised we might actually make enough money to buy proper shop premises sooner than we thought. This place was lucky timing, and an absolute bargain — used to belong to a friend of Lee’s cousin, who liked the sound of what we were planning to do and agreed to sell it to us for cheap as long as we send her free products whenever she wants them.”

“Seemed like a fair deal to us,” Fred finished, grinning widely. “So here we are. Most of these boxes have been sat in our room at home since the summer, and when we closed on the property we had Lee’s cousin and her friend move everything over for us while Mum and Dad were out, as well as a few boxes of stock we’d been keeping in the Shack.”

“So your parents have no idea?” Harry couldn’t imagine doing all that work behind Mr and Mrs Weasley’s backs — right under their noses, even.

“Are you kidding? Mum would have a fit if she knew what we’ve done. How long we’ve been planning this,” George remarked, somewhat derisively. “She’s got no idea of how much money we actually make through our owl-order catalogue, she just thinks it’s all silly little pranks and toys that won’t get us anywhere.” Harry frowned at the hurt in his tone, squeezing his shoulder sympathetically as he walked past to unload a stack of plates.

“This wasn’t quite how we planned for it to go,” Fred admitted. “ We thought we’d spend the rest of the school year prepping stock for this place, the first half of summer getting it all kitted out and ready to roll while half living at home, and then open with a bang to show Mum how serious we are about it. But she’ll find out we’ve left school soon — we’ll owl her in the morning when the post office reopens.”

“She’ll want to know where we’re living, and we’ll have to show her the flat and everything,” George sighed.

“Why don’t you tell her you’re moving into Grimmauld?”

Both twins froze at Harry’s suggestion. “What?” they chirped. Harry grinned.

“Tell her you’re moving into Grimmauld to keep me company. She’ll love that — she thinks it’s not healthy for me to be stuck there _with no one my age_ ,” he quoted sardonically. “Take your time getting the shop and the flat ready, live here without anyone else disturbing you, and open up when you’re ready. Once she sees how popular your place is — and trust me, it’s _going_ to be popular — she’ll realise she’s been wrong about everything and there’s nothing to worry about.” He shrugged. “Moony and Padfoot’ll cover for you, quite happily.” They would love the idea of helping the two pranksters keep their mother off their backs while they prepared to open their joke shop.

“Are you serious?” Fred asked. Harry nodded.

“Absolutely. You might have to scramble through the floo once or twice if she comes calling unannounced, but that’s no problem.” Harry checked that his box of kitchen supplies was completely empty, oblivious to the conversation happening between the twins in the form of eyebrow movements and facial expressions.

“Harry, we can’t ask you to lie to Mum for us,” George said, frown tugging at his lips. Harry shrugged again.

“Why not? I’ve been lying to her all year about what Moody and the others have been teaching me.” Mostly lies of omission, but still lies. “And I’d be lying to her about the fact that I’m coming over here to snog you stupid on a regular basis, even if she knew about this place.” He paused, suddenly realising how that sounded. “I mean, not that I want to lie to people about it or anything — I just thought that since it’s so new and there’s so much else going on and all— I thought we could take a couple months to figure things out. Maybe let people know in the summer? I’m not trying to hide it, I swear, I’m serious about you, I only—“ His nervous rambling was cut off by George’s lips pressing firmly against his own, hands resting on his hips.

“Relax,” George soothed, looking amused. “I know what you mean. We need to get used to this being a _thing_ before we let Mum start planning the wedding.” He was only teasing, but Harry blushed all the same. “Good to know you’re serious, though.” His brown eyes were bright, intense as they met Harry’s. “About us. And about lying to Mum for us.”

“I wouldn’t, y’know, if I wasn’t serious,” Harry told him, barely louder than a whisper. He half-hid his face in George’s neck. “Your family means too much to me. _You_ mean too much to me.” If it was going to be just some casual thing, he wouldn’t have made sure they waited until the timing was perfect, until they could properly commit to something.

“I know, gorgeous,” George assured softly, kissing his temple. “Me, too. We’re playing for keeps, here.”

The words made the giddy bubbles return to Harry’s chest. Fred cleared his throat loudly.

“ _If you’re quite finished_ ,” he drawled, trying to sound severe but failing due to the smile tugging at his lips, “that sounds like a solid plan, Harry. If Sirius and Remus are okay with it.”

“They’ve been keen to cause some kind of mischief for ages,” Harry assured. “This’ll be right up their street. Also, in the nicest way possible, Sirius is always up for anything that would piss your mum off.”

Both twins snickered. “Knew we liked him for a reason,” Fred enthused.

“Alright, then,” George assented. “We’ll tell Mum we’re at Grimmauld.”

With that settled, they got to work on finishing up the unpacking. Harry, as agreed, unshrunk furniture items while the twins rearranged their new living room half a dozen times trying to figure out how they wanted it all. As he unpacked more, it became clear that they still had a lot of things to get to make the place a proper home, but he was impressed at how many of the essentials they’d covered. They truly were the masters of deception and misdirection, being able to assemble all this without anybody knowing. Harry bet they could give even Tonks a run for her money on the ‘stealth and tracking’ portion of auror work.

It was a good thing they’d decided to put their energy into pranks and jokes rather than anything more sinister, or the wizarding world would be doomed.

When they’d unpacked most of the stuff for the living room and kitchen — and Fred insisted he was truly going to be sick if he had to spend a second more around his brother and Harry while they made eyes at each other — they each grabbed their trunks and the box of stuff for their own rooms and retreated, Harry following George.

While George redecorated his bedroom to his liking — more purple and grey, which didn’t surprise Harry one bit — Harry sat on the bed and dug through the redhead’s school trunk, separating them into piles around him. It was much like he’d done when he’d moved into his room at Grimmauld Place; a pile for clothes, a pile for books, and various piles for miscellaneous other things.

“What’s all that stuff?” George asked, poking his wand at a pile that didn’t seem to have any sort of theme.

“Stuff that’s actually Fred’s,” Harry replied. “Or at least, I think it is.”

George pursed his lips, digging through the pile to get a better look at it all. “Yup, you’re spot on, there. How much have you been paying attention to my stuff? You little stalker,” he joked. Harry flushed.

“It’s not that. I just know you well enough to know what’s more Fred than you.” Like the Potions’ journal, or the polka-dot t-shirt — or the copy of Playwitch magazine.

That drew a sappy smile to George’s face, and he slid his hand into Harry’s hair, snogging him thoroughly. “You’re perfect,” he echoed Harry’s words from earlier, full of fondness. He pulled back, glancing down at the pile, and sighed. “Fred’s probably got a bunch of my stuff, too. It never mattered before, really. We shared practically everything anyway.”

Harry rubbed at his back, making room for him to sit on the bed. “Will it bother you, having your own room?” He couldn’t imagine having a twin; having someone so close to him who he shared _everything_ with, who many people couldn’t even tell him apart from. Let alone having someone like that and then finally having separation from them after eighteen years.

“Maybe a bit, to start with. It’s weird to think about. But we’ve got the whole living space, and the shop and everything — I’ll only really be sleeping in here. And spending time with you,” he added with a wolfish grin. “It’s not like I’m leaving him forever. I think it’ll be nice, having my own separate space. Especially if he’s gonna be bringing girls over.”

“You can’t really talk, there,” Harry pointed out wryly, gesturing to himself.

“Yeah but you’re _you_ ,” George said, making no sense whatsoever. “The girls he picks up are just… girls.” Things clicked then, and Harry felt his cheeks heat.

“Oh.”

George rolled his eyes, leaning in for another kiss. “Yeah, _oh_. Daft sod,” he teased. “Come on, there’s a wardrobe in here somewhere,” he said, waving a hand towards the box. He got to his feet, making the wood floor a lighter colour with a wave of his wand, and started digging around the box for a wardrobe. There also turned out to be a matching dresser, which George squeezed in beneath the singular window.

“I don’t think I’m _quite_ ready to be at the level of you putting away my underwear for me yet,” the redhead announced with a wink, unshrinking a suitcase full of clothes. “Can you do books?”

“Sure.” Amused, Harry got up from the bed and levitated the stack of books after him, sitting down in front of the bookshelf. “Alphabetical, or by subject?”

“I thought you _knew me so well_?” George mocked lightly. Harry glared at him exasperatedly. “By subject, if you please. Or just shove them on in any order and I’ll sort them out another time. I’m starting to think unpacking is dumb and we’re wasting a perfect opportunity to snog some more.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “Door’s closed.”

“Indeed it is,” Harry noted, clambering to his feet. “Well, it’s your room — you’re the boss.”

“Ooh, kinky,” George purred, reaching out to take Harry’s hand. Harry snorted, allowing himsel to be tugged into an embrace.

“Pervert.”

“You’re the one with the sex book,” George argued.

“Which my _godfather_ gave me for Christmas.” Harry paused, then shuddered. “Pretend I never said that. I don’t want to think about my godfather right now.” Or his godfather reading or in any other way utilising a gay sex manual.

“Agreed.” George kissed him, hand sneaking up the back of Harry’s shirt. “Was I really your first kiss?”

Harry’s face burned furiously. He’d hoped George would forget he’d said that. “We already established that I have thought of you and no one but you since I figured out what wanking was,” he bit out. “Who else was I going to kiss?”

“I dunno. You’re Harry Potter — loads of people want to kiss you.”

“And I didn’t want to kiss any of them,” Harry reasoned sharply. “Especially the ones who wanted to kiss me because I’m Harry Potter.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing,” George assured hastily. “It’s kind of hot, knowing I’m the only one.” He paused, thumb stroking the jut of Harry’s hip. “So you hadn’t ever… with anyone?”

“Not until a couple of hours ago,” Harry confirmed, trying desperately not to be embarrassed. If he could get himself off against George’s thigh, surely he could talk about stuff like that with him too?

“Well you sure fooled me,” George told him, grinning. “Seemed like you knew exactly what you wanted, and how to get it.”

“I’m pretty good at figuring things out on the fly,” Harry replied, unable to stop himself from arching into the touch of George’s fingers fluttering down the ridges of his spine. He was getting hard again, and while the thrill made his blood heat, he didn’t have the same desperation as before to bolster him. He ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. “But I’m still new to all of this. So, uh — go easy on me, yeah?”

George’s free hand chucked him under the chin, nudging his head back up to meet his gaze. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he said softly, running a thumb over Harry’s lips. “I’m not exactly working with a wealth of experience, either, y’know. And every person’s different. But we can take our time. Work out what makes you feel good. Show you what makes me feel good.” His voice grew huskier with every word, and it was making it incredibly difficult for Harry to remember why he was worried about intimate stuff. Or remember anything but how it felt to have George’s thigh wedged between his, George’s skin under his hands.

He shook his head, coughing embarrassedly. “That— that sounds good.” He hated the way his voice cracked.

George moved his thumb, kissing Harry slow and languid. “We probably don’t have time for much more tonight, though,” he pointed out sadly. “Your godfather will start to worry if you’re not home soon. And I should probably put some proper sheets on this bed eventually.”

Harry did a quick tempus charm, his eyebrows rising when he realised it was gone ten o’clock. He’d been with the twins for seven hours!

Sirius and Remus were fairly relaxed guardians, but George was right; they’d worry if he didn’t come home soon. “I hate it when you’re sensible,” he sighed, and George laughed.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen often.” He smirked wickedly. “And I’d say we can probably push it ’til half past before I send you home. That’s plenty of time to snog a bit more.”

That sounded perfect to Harry.


	23. Chapter 23

When he eventually flooed back to Grimmauld Place, he was only half surprised to see Sirius and Remus sat at the kitchen table, playing cards and drinking firewhiskey. Part of him had thought they might take advantage of having the house to themselves, but deep down he knew they wouldn’t pass up the chance to tease the hell out of him.

“Well, well, well,” Sirius drawled, leaning back in his chair and eyeing his godson knowingly. “Look what the kneazle dragged in.”

Harry could feel the blood run to his face, even as he strode to the sink to pour himself some water as if nothing was awry.

“The twins doing alright, then?” Remus asked in amusement. “You’re lucky we didn’t panic, after you buggered off so fast.”

“Sorry.” Harry ducked his head. “They were a bit of a state when I got there. I had to heal a couple of wounds.” He gave a brief recount of the twins’ story, watching his godfathers purse their lips in worry at what Umbridge was doing to students.

“If anyone deserves Azkaban, it’s that foul bitch,” Sirius muttered, knocking back the last of his firewhiskey. “They got out safe, though. That’s the important bit.” Then he eyed Harry over, smirking. “And George was clearly pleased to see you. You’ve got a little…” He gestured to his neck, and Harry slapped a hand over his own throat in horror, watching the pair burst out laughing. “Merlin, gets them every time!”

Harry looked down at his reflection in the shiny kettle — there were no marks on his throat whatsoever. His reaction had said it all, though. “Shut up.” He glared halfheartedly at the pair. Sirius grinned at him.

“You two’ve finally stopped waiting about, then? No more longing glances across the room that make me want to smack your heads together?”

Harry’s blush grew brighter, but he couldn’t stop the smile that broke across his face. “Yeah, we’re… we’re good, now.”

“I bet you are,” the animagus jeered with a wiggle of his eyebrows. There was a muffled thud and Sirius yelped — Remus had kicked him under the table.

“We’re happy for you, cub,” he assured with a fond smile. “We both know all too well how difficult a situation like that is.” He shot Sirius a pointed look, and the dark-haired man sobered up sheepishly.

“Yeah, alright, alright,” he relented. “We’re delighted you finally got to snog the boy of your dreams. But it’s my duty as your godfather to tease you about it.” He winked. “And, of course, make sure you’re all safe and happy and consenting. Have you read the book we got you? I’m sure Moony would be happy to go over everything with you, answer any questions you might have.”

“Because you’re too chicken to do that without dying of embarrassment,” Harry retorted knowingly. He pulled out the chair at the end of the table, sitting down between them. “Listen, I need you both to do me a favour.” Sirius cocked his head in a move reminiscent of his canine counterpart. “Fred and George don’t want their mum to know about the shop yet. Not until they’re ready to open. So I said we’d pretend they were living here, now they’re out of school.”

Remus’ brows knitted together. Sirius, on the other hand, looked devious. “Ooh, I don’t blame them — Molly’s gonna be on enough of a tear once she hears they’re skipping out on exams. When do they think they’ll open?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “First week of the summer, probably? Their main market is students; might as well wait until they’re not all stuck at school. It’ll give them plenty of time to get everything sorted, and work on a few more products to launch with the shop’s opening.” He’d listened to them toss ideas back and forth as they’d unpacked their stuff, and he was once again astounded by their imaginations.

“So two months of pretending to Molly we’ve got her twin terrors staying here?” Sirius’ grey eyes turned mischievous. “Presumably _not_ revealing that one of those terrors is rather keen to deflower her precious little Harry?”

It was Harry’s turn to kick Sirius under the table. “Git. But yeah, we, uh, don’t really want anyone to know yet. Figured we’d wait til the summer for that, too.”

“You’ve got enough people breathing down your neck about Voldemort,” Remus agreed, “I don’t blame you for wanting some privacy there.” His lips pursed. “Are you sure Molly will be alright with the twins living here? She might be under the delusion that I’m a responsible adult, but we both know what she thinks of Sirius being the adult supervision in any situation.” His tone was wry, and Sirius snickered. “She might insist they come home with her.”

“At which point they will gently remind her that they’re eighteen and old enough to make their own decisions,” Harry reasoned. “She can’t force them back to the Burrow. We’re more concerned she might just start spending all her time over here to keep an eye on us, but if it means the twins have to live here for a week or so until she stops worrying, they can handle that.”

Sirius gave another salacious wiggle of his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. “We’ll tell her whatever you want us to, kiddo,” he assured. “And _not_ tell her whatever you want us to, as well. But if she moves in here to keep an eye on her boys, you’re the one who has to get her out.”

Harry grimaced — that wouldn’t be a pleasant task. “We’ll handle it.” Privately, he thought Mrs Weasley would be too busy worrying about Ron and Ginny and Hermione to be paying much attention to the twins.

All of a sudden, a yawn burst out of him, and Remus chuckled. “Looks like all the drama of the day has worn you out,” he teased “At least now we shouldn’t have to worry about you forcing yourself to stay up just to talk on the mirror half the night. Unless you’re even more of a lovesick fool than your father ever was.”

Harry shot the man a wounded look — he’d expected teasing from Sirius, but he’d thought Remus was safe! He should’ve known better. Bloody Marauders.

“Not now I can floo over and see him whenever I want.” There was a bit of a challenge in his tone, just in case his godfathers thought it too dangerous for him to be in Diagon Alley regularly even if he never left the flat.

Remus’ eyes glittered. “Oh, good — Padfoot, we’ll finally get the little menace out of our way.”

“Fantastic. No more worrying about getting caught shagging in the library,” Sirius replied with a grin, shooting his lover a hungry look. Harry grimaced.

“You two are the worst,” he complained.

“Honestly, Harry — you think you have a lot of time to catch up on, having to spend most of the school year away from George; Sirius and I were apart for _twelve years_ , and even before that we were pining like idiots,” Remus told him, his genial smile at odds with the wicked look in his eyes. “Really, count yourself lucky we’ve been behaving so far. We didn’t want to rub it in your face, after all, that we were together while your lad was stuck in the castle.”

“Go ahead, visit the terror as much as you like,” Sirius agreed. “Just keep to your training. And let us know if you’re planning on staying the night — some things just take _time_ , y’know?” At this point, he wasn’t even looking at Harry, his predatory gaze fixed on the werewolf opposite him. Harry made a noise of faint disgust.

“Maybe I’ll bring George over here instead,” he threatened. “Make up for all the places we couldn’t snog over Christmas.”

“You’re very much welcome to, pup,” Sirius agreed evenly, lips curling in a smirk. “Just don’t be upset if those places are already occupied.”

Harry was hit by the mental image of trying to find somewhere private with George, only to come across his godfathers making out — or worse. He shuddered.

“Right, that’s it, I’m going to bed,” he declared, refusing to look either of them in the eye. “You two are terrible and I very much wish to pretend this conversation never happened.”

“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” Sirius cooed. Harry dodged the hand reaching out to ruffle his hair, jumping to his feet and heading towards the door.

“Harry?” Remus called his name, tone soft and fond — Harry turned, wondering if the man was going to offer up some sort of sincere congratulations, or heartfelt advice about his new relationship. Instead, Remus looked him unflinchingly in the eye— and then smiled. “You’ll want to avoid the drawing room in the morning; we got a bit carried away in there after dinner, and I don’t think Kreacher is willing to clean that sort of mess up.”

Harry recoiled in horror, and fled from the kitchen.

Why, _why_ , did he ever trust Remus to be the nice one? He should know better!

.-.-.-.

The twins flooed into Grimmauld Place towards the end of breakfast the next morning, both with backpacks over their shoulders. “Alright, Harry,” Fred greeted cheerfully, looking miles better than he had the night before, now he’d had a good night’s sleep away from Umbridge and her threats. “We brought some stuff to put in our old room, in case Mum gets suspicious.”

George sidled up to Harry with a fond smile, leaning in automatically — and then froze, glancing at Sirius and Remus. The pair were watching with amusement in their eyes, and Harry tried not to blush. “It’s fine, they know,” he assured George, bravely leaning up to peck him on the lips. “How are you?”

“Better now I’ve seen you,” George replied with a grin. Sirius gagged.

“Yeah, get used to that,” Fred warned. “They’re disgusting, I’m telling you.”

“Can’t possibly be worse than James and Lily,” Remus remarked. “Those two… good Lord, it was painful sometimes. His pining was bad enough, but then the absolute sap of them being a couple…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Anyway. Good to see you well, boys. Harry tells us we’re to be your alibi to your parents.”

“If you don’t mind,” George requested, sneaking an arm around Harry’s waist to squeeze him in a hug, then steal a rasher of bacon.

“Course not! Under one condition,” Sirius added. Harry froze in trepidation; Sirius had said nothing about conditions the night before. “We get a front row seat to Molly’s face when you finally tell her the truth. About the shop,” he clarified, “though her face when you tell her about _this_ is also something I desperately want to see.” By ‘this’, he clearly meant George and Harry, gesturing to the pair leaning into each other like they’d been apart for weeks rather than hours.

“Deal,” Fred agreed before his twin could speak up. “We time it right, maybe there’ll even be popcorn.” Sirius barked out a laugh. “I’m gonna take this stuff upstairs.” He shrugged the shoulder carrying his backpack, and George tossed him the one he was carrying.

“Did you owl your mum, then?” Harry asked, tilting his neck to peer up at the redhead. There were still shadows under his eyes — one night of good sleep wouldn’t fix that — but he looked so much better than Harry had seen him in weeks. He wore a soft flannel shirt, and Harry couldn’t help but lean his cheek against the well-worn fabric.

“Just now, yeah. Not sure how long it’ll take to get there, but we figured we should be prepared.”

“Have you eaten?” Remus asked, gesturing to the breakfast leftovers still in the pan.

“Yeah, we’re good, thanks,” George assured. He glanced down at Harry, hand rising to rest on the back of his neck, stroking over the short hairs at the base of his skull. “You busy today?”

“Don’t think so. The auror lot have been busier than ever, lately, so I haven’t seen them as much. Might go over some stuff by myself. Need to write to Fleur about something.” His plans on that front were _so_ close to fruition, and it made his stomach bubble with nerves whenever he thought about it. “What about you, what are you up to?”

“Figured we’d sit around here and wait for Mum to come yell at us about skipping out on our NEWTs,” George replied with a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe do a bit more unpacking later, once she’s done. We really need to give the shop a full inspection — we didn’t actually see it in person before we bought it because of Umbridge, just had pictures and Lee’s cousin’s word on it. Need to figure out what we’re working with before we can properly plan the layout.”

There was a spark of excitement in his eyes that made Harry’s stomach flutter. He couldn’t wait to see what the twins came up with.

“Y’know, I really hope you two are capable of tearing yourselves apart, because if you act like that when Molly gets here it’ll give the game away in a heartbeat,” Sirius cut in with an amused smirk. Harry blushed, but George just wrapped his arm tighter around him.

“S’why I’ve gotta get it out of my system now,” he declared, hugging Harry like a teddy bear and dropping a kiss on his head.

“Well I’d love it if you could do that elsewhere for a bit — it’s too early for that sort of saccharine behaviour for anyone but me and my Moony dearest, in this kitchen,” Sirius declared, reaching out to grab Remus by the elbow as the werewolf took dishes to the sink, reeling him in and pressing his lips to the man’s jaw. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I am not getting into a competition with you,” he insisted. “Come on, George. We’ll wait for your mum upstairs.”

Twining his fingers with George’s, Harry led the way out of the kitchen. He didn’t take them towards the twins’ room, where Fred was putting their things out to make it look lived-in; instead he continued up to his own room. George didn’t protest, though he did wiggle his eyebrows when Harry brought him inside and shut the door.

“Taking me up to your bedroom, Potter? What _will_ my parents say?” he teased, stepping in close and cupping Harry’s jaw. Harry smirked.

“They’ll say how _delighted_ they are that I’ve finally got some other boys my age to play with,” he drawled. George’s eyes darkened.

“Ooh, what are we playing?”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning up for a proper kiss unlike the brief peck he’d had in the kitchen. It still felt forbidden, heart racing like he was breaking the rules somehow. George sighed softly into his mouth, holding Harry close.

“Can’t believe I get to do this, now,” he breathed, forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“I know the feeling,” Harry agreed. He wanted to stay there in George’s arms forever, just relishing in the sensation of finally _being there_. The waiting had been worth it, but fuck, he was glad it was over.

Running his fingers over George’s stubbled jaw, he took a breath to steady himself. “How long d’you think we’ve got before the horde descends?” An owl from London to Ottery St Catchpole wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.

As if on cue, both boys jolted as a familiar voice called up from the base of the stairs. “Fred! George! Where are you, are you alright?” Mrs Weasley’s voice was full of worry. George met Harry’s gaze, winked, then gripped his shoulder tight. There was a crack, and a sensation of being squeezed through a tube — Harry was glad Mad-Eye had taught him to apparate despite his lack of license, or the sensation might have made him sick.

They had reappeared in the twins’ bedroom, which now looked perfectly like they had arrived last night and made themselves at home with all the things from their school trunks. There was even a cauldron set up in the corner, as there had been all summer, waiting for them to start work on their prank products.

Fred snorted at seeing them pull apart, Harry moving to sit nonchalantly at the desk right before the door flew open. “Oh, my boys,” Mrs Weasley gasped, lunging forward to grab the pair in a tight hug. “Let me look at you — are you okay? What did that awful woman do to you?” She reached for George’s right hand, as he happened to be closest, and yanked it up to her face. Her eyes filled with a fury Harry had rarely seen on the jovial woman, her finger stroking tenderly over the inflamed, scarred skin. “Oh, Georgie. Freddie. I’m so sorry, we had no idea.”

“Exactly how we wanted it, Mum,” George assured, turning his hand over in her grasp to squeeze hers gently. “We’re fine, I swear. Harry patched us right up when we got in yesterday.”

Mrs Weasley suddenly seemed to realise Harry was there, and the look she sent him was tearful and relieved. “Harry, dear, thank you.” She looked back to her sons. “But why didn’t you come home? The Burrow isn’t that much further than London.”

The twins shared an uneasy glance. “We didn’t know if you’d be pleased to see us,” Fred confessed. Mrs Weasley choked on a sob, pulling them back into another hug.

“Silly boys,” she whispered thickly. “Of course I’m upset you won’t be taking your NEWTs, but I’m just happy to have you _safe!_ ” The twins both looked surprised over her head, peering towards Harry, who shrugged in bewilderment. That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting either!

“Ever since Harry told the Order what that _hag_ has been doing to you kids, I’ve hardly been able to sleep for worrying about you. I’m sure once Albus is back in charge he’ll let you sit your NEWTs next year, or perhaps we can even have you take your exams at the Ministry, over the summer. A little expensive, mind, but— you weren’t taking too many subjects each. And maybe you can chip in a bit of the money you’ve made selling those silly trick wands of yours.”

Harry bit his lip hard to stop himself from guffawing incredulously. Molly Weasley truly had no idea what sort of enterprising young men her twins were. It was a little sad, actually, that she was so oblivious to their talent when she spent so long gushing about the rest of their siblings for their grades and badges and whatnot.

The look in the twin redheads’ eyes made it very clear that they would not be wasting their hard-earned galleons on exams at the Ministry, but they kept their mouths shut, patting their mum’s back until she stopped crying. When she composed herself, she looked around the somewhat dreary room. “Are you _sure_ you boys don’t want to come home?” she asked doubtfully. “I know you must like the idea of staying here unsupervised, getting up to mischief with Sirius—“ Harry did snort at that; did she forget that Sirius _was_ the supervision? “—but you know you’re welcome back with your father and I. We’d love to have you, there’s no need to impose here.”

“Actually, Mrs Weasley, I asked them to stay,” Harry piped up, putting on his best sad-little-orphan face. “I love having Sirius and Remus around, I really do, but… I’ve missed everyone while they’ve been at school. I know the others will be back in a couple months, but I could use the company here.”

“We’re not Ron and Hermione, but we’ll do in a pinch,” Fred joked, grinning.

“ _Oh_ , of course, Harry dear!” That changed Mrs Weasley’s demeanour entirely. “Of course, you’ve been cooped up here without any of your friends for so long. You poor thing.” She looked like she didn’t know which of them to fuss over the most. “Have you had breakfast? Do you need me to bring you anything from home?”

“Steady on, Mum, we only got in yesterday evening,” George said, holding his hands up. “It’s not like you’re in Antarctica; we’ll pop by if we need anything.”

“I suppose.” Clearly flustered, Mrs Weasley shook her head. “Come down to the kitchen, I’ll get started on lunch. Your father’s at work, but he’ll be coming over for dinner — Bill, too, if he can make it. You can tell us all about what happened. How are Ron and Ginny? And Hermione, of course. Are they done with their detentions?”

Her gaze kept darting back to the scars on her sons’ hands, and Harry wished for a moment he hadn’t blurted out about the quills in front of the Order. But they needed to know. Maybe if they were lucky, one of them might be able to use the information to get Umbridge arrested, once Fudge was unseated.

If Fudge could be unseated.


	24. Chapter 24

Naturally, there was an Order meeting that night. Harry wasn’t sure if it was a formally called meeting, or just something that had grown from Mrs Weasley wanting to gather her family for dinner now that two more of her boys were home, but it became an Order gathering all the same.

As she was wont to do, Mrs Weasley took over the kitchen like it was her own as soon as they got back downstairs, grilling the twins for information on her other children while she cooked up a ham and vegetable quiche, using ingredients Harry hadn’t even realised they had in the pantry at that time. He sat beside Fred, with George on his twin’s other side — he didn’t think he’d be able to keep his hands to himself right now. He listened to the twins as well, pretending it was all brand new information to him, hearing of his friends’ exploits to stand their ground under Umbridge’s tyranny. They were heavily editing it for their mother’s sake, not wanting to worry her — not that it seemed to stop her fretting, by the look on her face.

Harry could also tell there was going to be an argument, somewhere down the line — perhaps in a week or so, when Mrs Weasley got over the relief at having the twins safely out of the castle, and remembered why they were supposed to be _in_ the castle in the first place. She regularly glossed over the subject of their exams with ‘Dumbledore will sort it out’, reminding Harry very much of Hermione’s attitude towards his expulsion back at the end of the summer. The twins wisely kept quiet, and Harry was glad they had decided to lie and say they were staying at Grimmauld for the foreseeable. They deserved the space to get their shop set up how they wanted it before having to deal with the Molly Weasley meltdown that would ensue.

After lunch, Albus Dumbledore appeared. Harry wasn’t going to ask how the man knew what was going on, or where the twins ended up. The ex-headmaster expertly coerced Mrs Weasley into allowing him to have a private word with the twins. George caught Harry’s eye on the way out of the room, and stifled a smile.

Deciding the best way to make their story believable was to carry on mostly as normal, Harry went up to the drawing room — after checking with Kreacher that it was in fact clean and there were no weird remnants or evidence of anything Sirius and Remus may or may not have done in there — summoned a quill and some parchment, and began to write a letter to Fleur.

Remus found him after a couple of hours, telling him they would be expecting a full house for dinner. “Molly’s taking this all much more calmly than I expected,” he remarked, perching on the arm of Harry’s chair.

“I think I scared her when I told the Order about Umbridge’s detentions,” Harry confessed. “Merlin only knows what she’s been thinking is happening to her kids. She hated having me here because she thought it was pushing me into things I was too young to handle — and then she discovers things aren’t any safer at the place she sent her own children.” He smirked faintly. “It’ll be nice having someone else for her to fuss over, for a change.” Though if she kept stopping by to fuss over the twins and started interrupting Harry’s training time, there could be problems.

“Until her fussing stops you getting alone time with your new boyfriend,” Remus remarked cheekily. Harry bit his lip. Or that, yes.

“Fred’s always good for a distraction,” he waved off. He was sure he could persuade his boyfriend’s twin to run damage control if he and George ever needed to sneak away.

“So are Sirius and I, despite all our teasing,” the werewolf promised. “Hell, cub, I think that might be the most normal teenage thing you’ll ever do in your life, keeping your relationship secret from Molly.”

Harry snorted. “Probably.” He paused, biting his lip. “Do you think it’s fair? I mean, you and Sirius know. Shouldn’t George’s parents know too?”

“We only know because we recognised the way you looked at him when you thought no one else was watching,” Remus pointed out, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t owe anyone that knowledge while you’re still figuring things out. Think of it this way; if you’d both been at school, Molly never would have known until you decided to tell her. She certainly doesn’t know about that boy Ginny is dating, and I doubt she has any idea what I’m sure Fred has gotten up to in the hidden corners of Hogwarts. Being under her nose doesn’t mean she gets the right to intrude before you’re ready.” His smile softened. “But it doesn’t mean you should be scared of showing how you feel, either.”

“I’m not,” Harry assured quickly. “Christ, Moony, you saw that this morning. When I know we’re around people who are safe, I can’t help myself.”

“Ah, young love.” Remus chuckled.

“It just feels like this has been such a delicate subject for so long. Part of me— part of me worries that once the thrill of making eyes at each other in a room full of people without them noticing wears off, George won’t—“ He cut himself off, cheeks flushing. “It’s nothing, I’m being stupid.”

“It’s your first relationship, you’re allowed to be stupid,” Remus told him. “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. He doesn’t seem like the type to string you along like that.” He side-eyed Harry impishly. “And I’m sure you don’t want me to tell you what I’ve learned from the pheromones you two put off.”

Harry, who had completely forgotten about that particular skill set of his werewolf godfather’s, flushed bright red. “No, you can keep that to yourself,” he croaked. Still, there was a tiny flutter of happiness in his chest at the confidence in Remus’ words.

George had told him he was serious, that he was playing for keeps, but… well, Harry still didn’t really understand why someone as hot and talented as George Weasley would be interested in his little brother’s speccy friend, even if he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

He pushed the thought away. George wasn’t that shallow. Harry could trust him.

“We should get downstairs, see who turns up,” Harry suggested, tucking his letter to Fleur into his pocket. Bill would be there tonight, so even if his quarter-veela companion couldn’t make it, Harry could have him pass along the missive.

Remus stood when Harry did, but wound an arm around the teen’s chest to pull him back into a quick hug. “Don’t sabotage your own happiness, Harry,” he advised softly, letting him go and then strolling from the room.

Harry swallowed thickly. That was easier said than done, when you were Harry Potter.

.-.-.

As dinner drew closer, the kitchen filled with Order members — and the twins were on fine form with their audience, regaling them with the tale of their daring escape, the story full of all the drama and embellishment they hadn’t been in any state to include when they told Harry. He grinned as he listened to them tell the story to Tonks, who had turned up a little late, watching her wipe tears of laughter from her eyes at their description of Umbridge’s face watching them fly away from the school.

It became clear that despite Dumbledore’s presence, the Order business would not begin until after everyone had eaten. Harry was surprised at how relaxed the headmaster seemed, sat at the table between Moody and Mr Weasley. He himself was up the other end with the twins, Bill and Tonks, and Harry was absolutely refusing to meet Bill’s eye. The cursebreaker might be able to keep a secret, but he was not _remotely_ subtle in the way he studied Harry and George, clearly trying to see if something about their relationship had changed. Harry doubted he saw anything he wasn’t used to seeing from the last year — after Dumbledore had finished talking to the twins about Umbridge, George snuck back up to Harry’s room for some time to themselves, so they had mostly gotten things out of their system by the time they had to put on a front for their dinner guests.

Harry wondered if the reason no one suspected was _because_ things had been brewing between them so long — he and George had acted like that around each other for the last couple of years now, everyone had probably written it off as just friendship. Also, most people couldn’t regularly tell the twins apart, and likely didn’t realise Harry only acted a certain way around one of them. Perhaps if he’d been at school all year, they would have given themselves away — then again, if he’d been at school all year, they wouldn’t have waited this long.

Surprisingly, there weren’t any pranks hidden within the dinner, or spells let loose at the table. Harry was beginning to wonder if the twins were truly feeling okay, or just putting on brave faces for their family and Harry.

Then the table cleared, and Dumbledore cleared his throat, and things slowly began to click together.

“As you can all see, we have two more in our number tonight,” the elderly wizard declared, getting to his feet and walking around the head of the table, standing behind Sirius. “While the circumstances are… not particularly ideal, we must welcome Fred and George Weasley back to London… and into the ranks of the Order.”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Albus, they’re just boys!”

“They are of-age, Molly,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “Only two months shy of graduation. I know you wish to protect them, but it is their decision.”

“We joined up when we were eighteen,” Sirius pointed out, gesturing to himself and Remus. “And I think the twins know a darn sight more about what they’re getting into than we did at that age. They’ve been mates with Harry too long to think otherwise.”

Harry smiled wryly, glancing at the twins. They were as serious as he’d ever seen them — no wonder they hadn’t been pranking. They wanted to prove they were responsible enough.

“We’re gonna be in the thick of it regardless, Mum,” George reasoned. “With the rest of the family involved. We want to fight.”

Harry had been attending Order meetings since Dumbledore had left Hogwarts — no one had really _decided_ to make that change, but they’d stopped kicking him out of the kitchen when they gathered, and Mr Weasley had put a hand on his wife’s arm to silence any protest she might have made. Harry didn’t speak much in meetings — a lot of what they were doing were things he couldn’t contribute to, stuck in Grimmauld as he was, and most of the information he had was not anything he was willing to share with the group at large. Sometimes he relayed facts from his visions of Death Eater meetings, but that tended to make people anxious, so it was easier to just tell Kingsley beforehand and let the auror do the talking.

“Fred, George…” Mrs Weasley trailed off pleadingly, tears in her eyes. Harry was viscerally reminded of her boggart in the drawing room back in the summer, the sight of her family’s corpses on the threadbare carpet. “Please, think about this.”

“We’ve been thinking about it all year, Mum,” Fred argued gently. “You can’t stop us. You wouldn’t have said anything after we graduated, and it seems a bit pointless to just sit here for the next two months and twiddle our thumbs ’til you say we can go.” He rolled his eyes.

Mrs Weasley didn’t look convinced, but sighed sadly and sat back down. Mr Weasley put an arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple and murmuring something too soft for any of them to hear.

That was settled, then. The twins were joining the Order.

It turned out, much to Harry’s surprise, that there was an oath of secrecy involved in the matter. The twins swore their allegiance to the Light in quiet, determined voices. Harry leaned in to whisper in Tonks’ ear; “How come I never had to swear in?”

“Because if you willingly turned to the Dark, we’d all be fucked and it wouldn’t matter anymore,” she replied with a snort. “Also it’s illegal for anyone underage to swear a magically binding oath.”

Harry wondered where that law was when he’d been magically sworn to compete in the Triwizard Tournament last year.

The twins had pride in their eyes when they returned to their seats, and Harry couldn’t help but shuffle a little closer and let his knee press against George’s beneath the table, offering a quick grin. Dumbledore continued to speak, and Harry settled down to listen.

“From what I have heard from our sources, Voldemort continues to attempt to place his people within the Ministry — or sway those who already work in influential positions.” Harry perked up, eyes narrowing. How many people did Voldemort have in there already?

“There have been overtures made to several aurors within the department,” Kingsley piped up, and all heads swivelled to look at him. “Discreet, of course — to those who have already showed leanings towards pureblood supremacy. But many of our recent arrests have been _conveniently_ found to have insufficient evidence for conviction. And many of our aurors seem to be spending money that is entirely outside their Ministry salary.”

Several people around the table sneered. Harry grimaced.

“Fudge is getting more confident,” he remarked, drawing the attention of the gathered crowd. “There have been no repercussions for expelling me, as far as he’s concerned. He’s now rid himself of the two people who had the influence to tear down his empire; he thinks he’s won.” It was clear from the Prophet, which had replaced Rita Skeeter with some Ministry mouthpiece journalist. Fudge was constantly congratulating himself for his work in ‘protecting the future’ by installing Umbridge at Hogwarts, stating that without _underserving celebrities trying to claim the nation’s attention_ , they could properly get things back to rights. At the same time, he was accepting bribes from Lucius Malfoy every week for one thing or another, restructuring the Ministry under the man’s suggestion.

“Well, that confidence is bound to fail him sooner or later,” Elphias Doge remarked optimistically. Harry grimaced.

There was a lot of damage that could be done before that happened.

With a few more reports from various people on the frustratingly little they could do under the current Ministry, the meeting finally wound down and people began to disperse. Harry was surprised when Bill sought him out, once the kitchen was a little emptier.

“Oh, here, can you deliver this?” Harry requested, pulling his letter for Fleur out of his pocket. Bill glanced at the name on the front, then nodded, tucking it into his jacket.

“Yeah, no problem. Listen, Conrad had a bit of a breakthrough the other day. I won’t bore you with the specifics — I barely understand them myself — but, just to let you know, things are ready to go whenever you are.”

Harry’s heart jumped, his gaze sharp as he met Bill’s eyes. “Really? Both parts?” Last Bill had told him, they’d figured out the purging potion but were struggling to comprehend some aspects of the ritual, due to the language barrier and the time passed. Something about identifying substitute components for things that had gone extinct.

“Whole thing,” Bill confirmed quietly. “And what we’ve got will keep for a year before we need to replace it. So just… give us a shout when you need it.”

Harry pursed his lips. He hoped a year was going to be more than enough time. There was so much damage Voldemort could do in that period. “Right. Good to know, thanks.”

Bill nodded, then his eyes flicked over Harry’s shoulder, and he reached out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “I’ll catch you later, kid. Did you need something, Mum?” His voice was entirely too casual, and when Harry turned around it was to see Mrs Weasley approaching. Harrys winced; thank God Bill had noticed her before either of them said something sensitive. So far, the Weasley matriarch had no idea her son was doing anything other than helping Harry learn runes sometimes.

“What was that all about?” He whirled around, meeting George’s gaze. The redhead was stood close, but not touching — though the look in his eyes said he wished otherwise. “You and Bill? Looked awfully secretive.”

“He was just… letting me know the project his team’s been working on was a success. He’d told me about it the other day, and I was curious to know how it worked out.”

Not entirely a lie, but enough of one for George to recognise the misdirection. Brown eyes narrowed. Harry gave a helpless half-shrug. George sighed, then shook his head. “If I needed to know, you’d tell me,” he said, more to himself than Harry. He offered a smile in reassurance. “You’ve got your fingers in far too many pies these days, Potter. It’s hard to keep up with you.”

He disappeared before Harry could respond — now that Bill had gone, Mr and Mrs Weasley were the last ones left, and Mrs Weasley seemed to be struggling to leave her sons behind.

“Come on, Molly, dear,” Mr Weasley urged, gently steering her towards the fireplace. “We’ll see the boys again soon, I’m sure.” With one last round of goodbyes, the pair vanished, leaving just the twins, Harry and the Marauders in the kitchen.

“Well, now that’s settled,” George declared, returning to Harry’s side to drape an arm over his shoulders. “You coming back with us for a bit?”

Harry felt his ears heat, and glanced over at Sirius and Remus. They weren’t even trying to hide their amusement.

“Go on, pup. You’ve been stuck with us for far too long,” Sirius joked, waving him off. “Just don’t forget Mad-Eye’s coming early tomorrow.”

Harry’s blush brightened — did Sirius think he would spend the night? Already? “I’ll be back later tonight,” he assured, gaze flicking to George to try and see what he thought of the insinuation. The redhead’s face was frustratingly unreadable.

Nevertheless, Harry flooed into the twins’ flat right behind them. It looked just as it had when he’d left it the night before, though with the addition of a colourful knitted blanket thrown over the back of the sofa.

“I’m gonna work on redecorating the bathroom,” Fred announced, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. He smirked at them. “You two have fun now. Don’t forget to shut the door this time.”

Harry and George both blushed.

They retreated to George’s room — shutting and silencing the door, just to be safe — and George tugged Harry into a slow, languid kiss. “That’s Mum and Dad sorted, then. Mum took that better than I expected,” the redhead confessed once they parted, his hands on Harry’s hips. Harry, who was having trouble stringing words together at that particular time, blinked owlishly.

“Oh. Yeah.”

George chuckled, leaning down to kiss Harry once more. “How the hell did I manage to go all of Christmas without kissing you?” he murmured to himself, thumbs settled in the divots of Harry’s hips. Harry’s blood was racing just from those two kisses, his head fogged. How, indeed?

“Would’ve been impossible to stop, once we’d started,” he pointed out breathlessly. One of George’s hands moved up the back of his shirt, while the redhead’s lips moved to his jaw.

“Too right,” he agreed. Sidestepping carefully, he turned Harry around and nudged him down onto the bed — which now had proper sheets and pillows and blankets. Harry happily let the taller boy manhandle him, kicking his shoes off hastily.

It wasn’t the same fire and passion they’d had the night before, when they’d been so eager to see each other and to taste and _touch_ and express everything they’d been holding back for so long. This was more of a steady simmer, a comfortable heat that had been brewing all day, occasionally relieved by kisses when they’d managed to escape Mrs Weasley. Harry was growing hard, and he could feel the same from George, but they weren’t rushing to do anything about it.

In another life, they would have been doing this since the summer. They would have spent those months getting to know each other better physically as well as emotionally, snogging in secret corners of the castle, taking their time over it all. There was no need to rush to catch up now they’d finally got there.

But he still wouldn’t complain when George sat up to pull his t-shirt off, revealing his broad chest and firm abs, a million freckles Harry wanted to get to know intimately. He was beautiful. And he was looking at Harry like the bespectacled boy was the only thing in the universe worth paying attention to. Harry swallowed against an unexpected wave of emotion.

“God, this still doesn’t feel real,” he croaked, pressing a hand against the redhead’s warm skin, feeling George arch into his touch.

“I know what you mean,” George agreed, propping himself up on one elbow, half leaning over Harry. “It is, though. So real.” He nipped playfully at Harry’s bottom lip. “Do I get to take your shirt off again, too?” His hand played with the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, his gaze hopeful and earnest. Harry got the feeling that if he said no, that would be that, and George would be perfectly happy to go right back to kissing him regardless.

“Hmm, I suppose so. Only fair,” Harry replied with a teasing grin, trying to help as George tugged the garment up. This time, Harry’s glasses were there to get caught, and there was a brief interlude of giggles as they tried to get Harry put to rights.

“Why don’t you just take them off?” George suggested amusedly. Harry pouted.

“All your freckles go blurry if I do that,” he retorted. How was he supposed to count them then?

George’s grin widened, his eyes like liquid chocolate as they met Harry’s, hot and inviting. “You like my freckles, hmm?”

“I do,” Harry declared, letting his fingers trace some of the freckles on George’s chest like a dot-to-dot all the way up his collarbone. “Not sure which is my favourite yet, though. I’ll have to get to know them better.”

At this, the redhead’s expression grew predatory, sending a pulse of want straight to Harry’s cock. “Be my guest,” George drawled, rolling onto his back and holding his arms out as if offering himself up. “I’m sure they’ll all be very friendly.”

Harry snickered, scrambling over to straddle George’s waist, careful to keep his glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose.

How could he refuse an offer like that?


	25. Chapter 25

If Harry had to describe the next week, it could only be as absolute bliss.

Sure, the outside world was kind of a hellscape garbage fire, but as he didn’t have much contact with the outside world these days…

Instead, while he spent less time training with the three aurors and Bill as they became far busier between both work and Order commitments, it allowed him to spend most of his time over at 93 Diagon Alley, helping the twins set up their new shop.

He was pretty sure that by now, practically everyone in the Order knew that the twins were not truly living at Grimmauld Place, except for Mrs Weasley — he privately thought Mr Weasley had to have picked up on it, and was just allowing his sons their privacy by not saying anything. No one seemed to have figured out what was going on between George and Harry, but they were no longer surprised to arrive at Grimmauld and find the twins weren’t there. Or to find Harry flooing in and out regularly. Also, several of them had made comments about helping the twins out with ‘a project’, and Harry knew for a fact that Moody had gone over to check out the wards Bill and Fleur had put up to protect the place. He was glad the rest of the Order were being so supportive, and making sure the twins were safe in their new home.

But even with his new relationship secret from all but a few people — even if Bill thought he knew far more than he actually did, the smug git — Harry felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. All this time, all this waiting, and now he could just walk over and grab George and kiss him whenever he wanted. Provided they weren’t in an Order meeting or anything, of course. He no longer had to avert his gaze when the staring felt like too much, or spend hours at night lying awake thinking about how long it would be before he and George could stop sidestepping around this huge thing between them, bottling it up for what felt like eternity. The waiting was over, now. George was his boyfriend, for real. The one thing he’d wanted since he was twelve, and it had happened.

And what an incredible boyfriend he was. While in a lot of ways their relationship hadn’t really changed — Harry had been mentally prioritising George for longer than he cared to admit, and George had been doing much of the same — now they were properly together George was finally able to express all the things he’d kept quiet for Harry’s sake. And he was an absolute _hopeless_ romantic, underneath all the jokes and banter and charm.

He held Harry’s hand while they sat and discussed shop layout with Fred, sometimes raising it to press a kiss to the back of it. He bought Harry sweets when he went out into the alley, brushing it off with a bashful ‘I saw this and thought you might like it’. He pulled out chairs and opened doors and loved absolutely nothing more than to snuggle up with Harry at the end of the day and listen to the Wireless. It was all a bit overwhelming for the dark-haired boy, who had hardly experienced any kind of love in his life, let alone the kind of devotion offered by a Weasley. Once, he mentioned it offhand to Fleur, and she just laughed at him before patting his hand and telling him he deserved all that and more, and that Weasleys were good men to have the love of. The word had made him blush for the whole rest of the afternoon, his stomach squirming whenever he thought about it.

Fred thought they were gross, and regularly made sure to tell them as much, but Harry had seen him smiling when he turned away from scolding them for kissing instead of sorting stock or building shelves. He was happy for them. Harry thought he liked the extra company around the flat, too; the twins were always surrounded by people at school and in the summer, and it had to be strange to be by themselves so much now. At least Harry was used to it when he got expelled.

“What’s got you smiling, then?” Harry snapped out of his thoughts abruptly, jerking his head up to look at the intruder. He was supposed to be setting up the wards on a display of love-potion-based products that were a bit more adult in nature, making sure no one under sixteen could remove them from their shelves. Though the love potions were incredibly weak, and wouldn’t do more than give someone the urge to confess feelings they already had, the twins were still wary of letting their younger customers get into all of that.

Instead he’d been daydreaming, and it seemed George had caught him at it. He grinned at the redhead. “See, there’s this boy I like,” he began in a theatrical whisper, kicking his legs playfully where he perched on the edge of the table.

“Oh?” George asked, equally theatrical, reaching for a bottle of the love potion. “Thinking of slipping him some of this, are we?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” Harry replied. “I’m pretty sure he likes me back, see.”

“What a lucky lad he is,” George murmured, grin widening. “Maybe you’re after something more like this, then.” He reached up to grab a little bottle of something over Harry’s head, drawing frustratingly close in the process. He smelled like fireworks; he’d been up in the attic workshop all morning, testing some new product ideas.

Harry looked at the bottle, smirking as he read the label: _Weasley’s Liquid Gryffindor; Be Brave at Heart!_

It was a sort-of watered down version of Felix Felicis, designed to offer a boost of courage to those facing an important event or big conversation; such as telling someone you fancied them.

“Don’t think I’ll need that, either,” came Harry’s drawling response. He stretched his legs out, hooking his feet around the backs of George’s thighs, bringing him in closer. “Courage has never been one of my problems.”

That made George snicker despite himself. “Well, then, I’m not sure what we at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes can do to help you out with your crush,” he said in mock-sadness. Harry smirked devilishly.

“I can think of a couple things.” He leaned up, pressing his lips to George’s, feeling the redhead’s arms come around him instantly. George moaned softly into the kiss, the sound going right to Harry’s very _soul_ , and his eyes were dazed when they parted. “That’s a good start.”

“Well there’s plenty more where that came from,” George teased with a salacious wink. “How go the wards?”

“Uh, yeah, not done yet. Got a bit distracted, sorry.” Harry’s sheepish smile made George roll his eyes.

“Useless,” he teased. “What do we even have you around for?”

Harry let his hand slip down to squeeze George’s bum through his jeans. “I can give you a reminder if you like.”

George kissed him again, smirking. “Only once you’ve done the wards.”

Harry sighed — he had promised, he supposed. And in his defence, he was at least halfway done. He hadn’t been sat there thinking about George the _entire_ time.

George hovered at Harry’s shoulder while the dark-haired teen wandlessly inscribed runes onto the wood of the display, humming curiously. Arithmancy had always been more Fred’s thing than George’s.

“You’re getting good at that,” he commented, pride colouring his voice. Harry grinned, even as his cheeks flushed.

“It’s fairly easy, once you get the hang of it. Bill’s a great teacher.” Runes and Arithmancy reminded him of learning Maths back in muggle primary school. He’d always liked Maths.

When he finished, he ran a keen eye over his rune chain, checking everything added up as it should. “If all is in order…” He reached out, grabbing one of the potion bottles, and it firmly did not budge. When he let it go, George tried, and had no problems removing the bottle from the shelf. He made a face.

“Well, now I feel like I’m robbing the cradle,” he declared dryly. Harry laughed.

“Couple more months,” he reminded, stroking George’s cheek. “God, I bet muggles wish they could do something like that. Not even a fake ID would work then.”

“What’s a fake ID?”

“I’ve got one, I can show you tomorrow. Bit like an apparition license, but it’s an actual card you carry with you. Has your picture and your date of birth and all that on it, so people can tell if you’re old enough to buy alcohol or— other things.” His cheeks flushed, remembering what he’d used his for. George caught the look and narrowed his eyes.

“Ooh, have you been up to something naughty, little Harry?” he teased softly. “What’ve you been buying before the muggles say you’re old enough?”

Harry bit his lip. “You’ll have to wait to see that, I’m afraid.” They might have spent the last week developing their new relationship, but as George had promised, they were taking their time; he wasn’t quite ready to introduce the redhead to the contents of his locked bedside drawer.

George’s eyes darkened, comprehension dawning.

“You saucy little minx.” He kissed Harry hard, then tugged him off the edge of the desk. “Come on — there’s things I want to do to you that are definitely on Fred’s list of things we’re not allowed to do in the shop.” He paused, eyes sparkling with lust as he grinned at Harry. “You interested?”

Harry grabbed his hand, and began to lead the way up to the flat.

.-.-.-.

It was all going far too well, and Harry really should have been less surprised when that changed.

He was in his room one blustery Tuesday evening, a rare one spent at Grimmauld rather than with the twins; Remus had been called away on Order duties, and Harry hadn’t wanted to leave Sirius by himself. The dog animagus was currently keeping himself busy doing dishes in the kitchen, and had shooed Harry up to his bedroom to go do something more fun. And so, Harry was lying on his bed, his mind mostly stuck in a memory from earlier that week. Fred had been out of the flat all day to pick up some potion ingredients from one of their shadier suppliers, leaving George and Harry to their own devices. Naturally, like the two randy teenagers they were, that ended up in one place only; George’s room, with Harry receiving his first ever blowjob. Followed shortly by giving his first ever blowjob.

Just as he was considering throwing a locking and silencing charm at his door, his other hand sliding down his belly to the bulge in his pyjama bottoms, there was a flash of fire in the middle of the room, and a single red tail feather floated down to the ground.

Harry shot up, arousal dying instantly. Within seconds he was on his feet and sprinting down the stairs, bursting into the kitchen only to skid to a wide-eyed halt.

Most of the Order was in the room, and not a single one of them seemed to be unscathed. Up one end of the table was Tonks, lying down while Emmeline Vance tended to a stream of blood pouring from her abdomen. On the other end, Bill Weasley was splayed out unconscious on the table, Madam Pomfrey hovering around him with her wand a blur, her face completely serious. Harry’s heart turned to lead — he hadn’t even known the Hogwarts matron was in the Order. To have her here, away from the school… what was wrong with Bill?

“Potter!” His head snapped up at Kingsley’s sharp call. “Triage, now!”

Tearing his gaze away from the unconscious redhead, Harry jumped to work, darting from person to person and checking their injuries, healing what he could on the way and trying to figure out who was in most desperate need of help. A spark of relief flared within him when he saw a pair of identical redheads sat on chairs by the stove, George’s wand carefully knitting together a deep gash on Fred’s thigh.

“I’ve got this,” George assured, offering Harry a brief flash of a smile, even though there was blood matted in his hair. “We’ve had worse from our own products. Go help Fleur; she got hit protecting Bill, I don’t know if she’s okay.”

Harry hadn’t seen the blonde yet, and he felt the panic rise within him when he didn’t immediately see her in the kitchen. There were so many people, so many of them wounded or cursed in some way.

There! He craned his neck, spotting something silver flashing by the table where Pomfrey was working on Bill. Harry rounded the table quickly, sucking in a sharp breath. Fleur was lying down on a transfigured bench, skin almost as pale as her hair, shivering violently.

“Fleur! What happened?” Harry immediately began running his hand over her for diagnostics, keeping his attention half on what his magic was telling him and half on the words coming out of the French witch’s mouth.

“Eet was an ‘ex, I did not ‘ear the words.” Her accent thickened as she mumbled dazedly, her eyes glassy and failing to focus on Harry. He lit up the end of his finger with a lumos, testing her sight responses; slow and wobbly, but she was still responding. She hadn’t been blinded. Probably just seeing double.

“How do you feel?”

“Cold,” she gasped, wrapping her arm around her stomach. “So cold. ‘Ow ees Bill? Il etait blessé, il est—“ She continued to babble in French, Harry only recognising a handful of words as he worked on her. There was dark magic around her for sure, something sitting thick and heavy and suffocating. Harry wasn’t sure what it was, and his hands trembled as he tried to think of the best counter. Bill would know. But Bill was still unconscious, with Pomfrey desperately working to heal him.

When he looked up, everyone who might have been of aid was already dealing with their own patient. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sirius running his wand over Remus, who was vomiting black bile into the sink. Dumbledore was murmuring a healing chant over Kingsley, who sat in the corner with his robes cut to bare his back, which held some nasty-looking burns.

Harry was on his own.

He forged on, panic spiking when Fleur’s pulse slowed dramatically, her eyes drifting shut as her shivering continued. It struck something familiar within him — she had looked somewhat the same after the second task, soaking wet from the lake in February.

Veela were susceptible to cold, as beings of fire.

Now he had something to go with, Harry followed his instincts, casting the counter-curse to any hex he could think of that would induce extreme cold. When he parted Fleur’s robe he saw several sluggishly-bleeding cuts on her abdomen and shoulders, curse marks and blisters all over her skin. He ached to treat them, but he couldn’t yet; he had to figure out the freezing hex first.

At last, one of the counters he used made the magic surrounding her shudder, and as Harry pushed more power into it he could feel it melting away. Fleur’s shivers lessened, and Harry quickly began to clean and heal her wounds, his adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat beginning to return to normal. When he looked up, he met Madam Pomfrey’s keen hazel eyes. “You’ve been keeping busy, Mr Potter,” she noted. Harry wondered how long she’d been watching him work.

“I haven’t had you to patch me up,” he joked lightly, watching the corners of her lips twitch in a reluctant smile. “How’s Bill?”

“He’ll live. Took a rather nasty combination of a compression hex and a blood-boiling curse, but it was reversible.” Harry grimaced; that sounded _horrendous_.

“Good. I— I didn’t know you knew. About, y’know,” he gestured to the house around them, under its Fidelius charm. The mediwitch smiled.

“I’m only called in emergencies, but Albus made sure I would know where to find those who need me.” She straightened up, surveying the controlled chaos around them. Most people seemed to have dealt with their wounds by now; even Tonks was sat up and smiling, though she was still pale and leaning against Emmeline like she might fall over otherwise. “I should get back to the school, before our dear _headmistress_ notices I’m gone.” The venom in her words made Harry flinch. In his joy at having the twins back, he’d almost forgotten Umbridge was in charge of the school.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he called quietly, before she could walk away. She turned, raising an eyebrow at him. “How— how bad is it? In the castle? How—“ _how are my friends?_ , he wanted to ask, but he doubted he’d like the answer.

Pomfrey’s lips pursed. “The students are fighting back, the best they can. She has not broken them yet. With any luck, she’ll be gone by summer.” Then she smiled, reaching out to squeeze Harry’s arm. “It’s good to see you, Potter. Well done with Miss Delacour — that was some very fine healing, there. I daresay you have a knack for it.”

“I— really?” Kingsley and Sirius and Remus had all complimented his healing work, but only in the same way they complimented most of his magical training.

“Indeed. If you ever want to study it further, please do owl me. Once the Ministry gets its nose out of my personal correspondence, of course,” she added sharply. With a short nod, she hurried over to speak to Albus, then disappeared in a whirl of portkey magic.

Harry looked around the room, mentally ticking everyone off his ‘okay’ list. Fred didn’t appear to be bleeding anymore, though his trousers were ruined. Remus had stopped vomiting, his trembling hands cradled between Sirius’ as they talked quietly. Mr and Mrs Weasley were now beside Bill — he hadn’t even realised they were there, until now. They didn’t look too worse for wear, though they were a little dishevelled.

“What happened?” Harry asked, approaching his godfathers. Remus gave him a smile that was more of a grimace.

“Severus passed on word of a raid — a squib couple who have been fostering several muggleborn children who were not safe with their muggle families. We got there in time to save everyone, but… the Death Eaters weren’t impressed by our arrival.”

A vice clenched around Harry’s heart, even though Remus had assured him there were no casualties. A foster family for muggleborns with abusive families… if only he’d had one of those, as a kid.

“Did we manage to get any of them?” he asked hopefully, looking around the room. Surely with the number of aurors and seasoned fighters, they would have arrested or incapacitated at least one Death Eater.

“A fair few — it was an initiation raid, by the looks of it. Mostly inexperienced people, with a few of the higher rank Death Eaters thrown in for supervision. It was those ones that caught us off guard; we were outnumbered by the amateurs, we couldn’t always guard on two sides.”

Harry looked around the kitchen, counting quickly — twelve Order members. Fourteen, if you counted Dumbledore and Snape, though the latter would have been trying to keep his cover. There were over fourteen people in that single raid trying to become full-blown Death Eaters.

How the hell were the Ministry still maintaining that Voldemort was dead??

“We’re going to take Bill home with, I think,” Mr Weasley declared, looking down at his unconscious son sadly. “Poppy says he’ll be alright, but… he’ll do better in a familiar setting.”

“I am coming wiz him,” Fleur declared, her voice still a little slurred, the occasional shiver wracking her body. Mrs Weasley eyed her oddly.

“He’s going to be okay, dear,” she assured. “You kept him safe, and we’re ever so grateful, but… you should go and get some rest. We can have him call you once he’s back on his feet.”

“I am coming wiz him,” Fleur repeated firmly. She reached out, taking Bill’s hand in her own, looking at the redhead’s parents defiantly. Mr Weasley’s eyes widened, and Mrs Weasley brought a hand to her mouth.

“Oh. I…”

Harry held his breath, watching in trepidation as the redheaded matriarch digested the news. He had to give it to Fleur; she certainly had guts. Though this was probably the best time for it — Molly would be too overwhelmed by the raid for the information to really sink in.

Mrs Weasley didn’t seem able to finish the sentence, and her husband patted her on the arm.

“Of course, Fleur — you’re very welcome in our home,” he declared, his soft voice ringing through the otherwise silent kitchen. “Let’s get him into bed, shall we?” With a wave of his wand, he levitated his son off the table. Fleur didn’t let go of Bill’s hand. “Goodnight, all.”

The four of them disappeared into the floo, and a collective breath was released by those who remained.

“Well,” Tonks said, getting gingerly to her feet. “Bill’s in for an earful once he’s back to rights. Blimey.”

It was well known within the Order that Molly Weasley was not a fan of Fleur Delacour. She would be even less so now the girl had admitted to dating her precious son.

“Fancy crashing at mine tonight, Em?” Tonks said, glancing at Emmeline Vance. “Make sure I don’t bleed out in the night?”

“If I must,” the older witch replied, a hint of a smile at her lips.

The kitchen steadily began to clear out, and Harry nudged Sirius’ side. “Take Moony up,” he urged softly. “He looks like he’s ready to pass out. I’ll finish up here.”

Sirius blinked, glancing at his partner, who was swaying on his feet and looked a little dazed. “You sure?” he checked with Harry, eyes flicking to the Weasley twins. Harry nodded.

“Go on.”

With an arm around Remus’ waist, Sirius guided him from the kitchen. Harry headed over to the twins. “How are you doing?” he asked, grimacing at Fred’s blood-stained and ripped jeans.

“Bit tender, otherwise fine,” the redhead replied cheerfully. “We thought— if it’s alright with you, we thought we might crash here tonight. In case Mum calls early to check on us.”

Looking the pair in the eyes, seeing their exhaustion, Harry thought that might not be the only reason they wanted to stay.

“Yeah, not a problem. You’re always welcome to your room,” he insisted. It was just the three of them left, now, and Harry begin to clean up the leftover bandages and splatters of blood around the room. All of a sudden, Kreacher appeared.

“Kreacher will take care of things,” he insisted stubbornly. “Master will go to bed.”

Harry blinked at the elf, who huffed past him and vanished a bloodstain on the table with a click of his fingers. “Thanks, Kreacher.” There was no response.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Harry walked with the twins towards the staircase. Fred was limping, leaning heavily into his twin. “Do you need a hand, or…?” Harry trailed off, and Fred shook his head.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

With that assurance, Harry nodded hesitantly, but leaned up to press a kiss to George’s lips. “Goodnight, then.” Letting them figure their own way up the stairs, Harry headed up to his bedroom, sinking onto his bed with a sigh. He looked down at his own lap, and grimaced. There was blood on his pyjamas.

A shower was in order.

He didn’t linger long under the water, just enough to scrub the feeling of blood and dark magic from his hands. He could hardly believe so many of the Order had come back injured from the same raid — he’d seen them return to Grimmauld in groups of four and five, scuffed and sometimes bloody but otherwise alright. This was the biggest one yet. It made his stomach churn uneasily, especially when he felt neither triumph nor rage through his scar. Either Voldemort was learning to block his emotions from Harry, or he truly wasn’t bothered by the resistance to his initiation.

Harry’s stomach squirmed when he thought about what going to sleep might entail. Voldemort would no doubt be punishing those failures, still.

After Merlin only knew how long spent staring at his bed in a conflicted haze, Harry finally collapsed into it, tugging the duvet up to his chin.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

He waved his hand to summon light, and again to open the door slightly. George stood there, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, his hair damp. The smile he gave Harry was strained. “Mind if I join you?”

In response, Harry pulled back the duvet, nudging the door shut when George stepped inside. The taller boy wiggled his way under the duvet with Harry, crowding up against his chest. It was a bit of a tight squeeze in the single bed, but with a little bit of manoeuvring they managed to get comfortable facing each other, their legs tangled. “Thought you’d want to stick with Fred tonight,” Harry whispered, nose almost touching George’s.

“He’s fine, just tired. Told me to come up here.” George’s eyes squeezed shut for a long moment. “Does it ever get any less terrifying?”

Harry didn’t need to ask for clarification. He cupped George’s face, stroking his cheek gently. “After the first couple of times, sort of.” Facing death didn’t exactly get less _terrifying_ , just less… novel. The response became more automatic, which made it feel less scary, because you’d done it before. As far as he knew, this was the twins’ first proper battle with Death Eaters.

“You’ve been facing shit like that since you were eleven,” George breathed. “ _Worse_ than that, even. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Never had much of a choice,” Harry replied humourlessly. “It’s… it’s easier to do it on my own. When I don’t have to worry about others.” Even now, Cedric’s lifeless face haunted his dreams.

“You’re so brave,” George insisted. “If not for Tonks, Fred and I both would’ve been killed out there. We froze.”

Harry made a mental note to send Tonks some kind of present. “It was your first fight, of course you froze.” He ran a soothing hand through George’s shower-damp hair. “The brave part is going towards the fight to begin with, and you did that.”

George hummed noncommittally. Harry leaned in, kissing his jaw. “You _are_ brave,” he insisted. “So brave. Just look at everything you did to protect the kids before you left Hogwarts.” He pulled George closer, urging him to rest his head on Harry’s chest. “They’re Death Eaters, of course they’re terrifying. But you did it anyway. I’m so proud of you.”

George squeezed him tight for a moment, and Harry felt his shoulders shudder a little. “Don’t know what I’d do without you,” the redhead admitted quietly. “I… whatever your secrets are, whatever plans you’ve got— do your best to come back to me when it’s all over, yeah? I need you, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip. He was glad George didn’t ask him to promise to live. That wasn’t a promise he could make. None of them could. “I will if you do,” he responded, stroking the short hairs on the nape of George’s neck. “The feeling is mutual.” He couldn’t know the outcome of this war, but he knew that the longer it kept going, the more likely it would become that George wouldn’t come home one day. Especially if Voldemort ever found out how much the redhead meant to Harry.

But that wouldn’t stop either of them fighting, or being together. They’d waited long enough for both of those things.


	26. Chapter 26

In the middle of a large crowd of muggles all moving in the same direction, Harry peered around for a familiar face, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Only nine people knew where he was right now. That was a larger number than privy to most of his secrets, and that should have reassured him, but all he could think of was how he had never done anything _remotely_ like this before. He’d never left Britain before.

He shuffled along with the crowd of muggles through the train station, and his stomach flipped at the sight of silver-blonde hair, relief flooding him instantly. Fleur was stood off to the side, dressed like an incredibly fashionable muggle in jeans and a silver top beneath a leather jacket, completely ignoring the way half the people in the station were staring at her in awe. Harry stifled a smirk, heading in her direction, and her face lit up when she saw him. She hurried over, bundling him in a tight hug and kissing both his cheeks delightedly. “You made it!” she squealed happily. Harry wondered if she noticed all the people now giving _him_ death glares for being so familiar with the beautiful young woman.

“Happy birthday,” he replied, passing over a small wrapped gift. She squealed and hugged him again.

“Oh, you should not have! You have already done so much!”

“You’re the one who’s done the favour for me,” he insisted. “It’s the least I could do.”

Fleur rolled her eyes, but tucked the present into her handbag, then looped her arm through Harry’s. “Shall we go? Gabrielle is eager to see you.”

Harry grinned, hitching his backpack further up his shoulder and gesturing broadly in front of them. “Lead the way!”

It was strange, being in Calais station. It was as busy as St Pancras had been, but there were distinct differences; both in architecture, and in the language all around him. He’d never been somewhere he didn’t speak the most-used language before — even in Gringotts, most discussions were held in English — and to hear dozens of conversations happening but not understand a single one of them was somewhat jarring. He was fascinated, though, looking around with childlike joy as Fleur led him around to a corridor that none of the muggles appeared to notice.

“I wish you were here for longer,” Fleur sighed. “I would love to show you my home country.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Harry suggested. He too wished he had time for sight-seeing, but he was on an incredibly tight schedule.

The warded corridor held a row of fireplaces, as well as several cubicles that were for use as departing apparition points, according to the sign in both French and English. Fleur stepped up towards one of the fireplaces, reaching for the floo powder. “Hold on tight,” she teased, tossing the powder in and pulling Harry with her into the flames, calling out something he didn’t quite catch before they were swirling through the fireplace.

It spat them out into an elegantly decorated reception room, and Harry barely had time to regain his footing before a tiny blonde blur was flying towards him. “Harry!” It was Gabrielle, Fleur’s little sister, who had grown at least three inches since Harry had seen her last. “Welcome! We are so ‘appy to ‘ave you! Ca va? Fleur said you cannot stay long and you are very busy—“ Her words spilled out in a mixture of French and heavily-accented English, and Fleur’s musical laugh met Harry’s ears.

“Gabrielle, parle l’Anglais,” the elder sister chided playfully. “‘Arry does not speak Francais, oui?”

The young girl blushed, staring up at Harry with wide eyes. He offered her a smile. “Hi, Gabrielle. It’s good to see you, too! Wow, you look even more like your sister than last time,” he added, watching her beam with pride.

“Come, Papa has lunch ready,” Fleur urged. At that reminder, Gabrielle bounced forward to take Harry’s hand, leading him through the house as she spoke in slower, somewhat stilted English.

“You must tell me what it is like where Fleur works, she will not say much,” she declared with a mildly mutinous look at her sister. “And she ‘as barely said anyzing about ‘er boyfriend! Do you know ‘im?”

Harry grinned wickedly. “Oh, I’ve known him for longer than Fleur has,” he informed her, watching the girl’s eyebrows rise.

“Zen you must tell me _everyzing_.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Fleur cut in. “Not too much, ‘Arry.” She winked at him, and he chuckled.

They went through a doorway into a homey, country-style kitchen, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of the man stood by the sink. He had the same white-blond hair as the Malfoys, but that was where the similarities ended. His hair was short, and his face was warm and friendly with the barest hint of laughter lines creasing the tanned skin. Bright blue eyes danced at the sight of his daughters and their guest, and he glanced down at the navy blue apron tied around his waist with a sheepish smile.

“You are earlier than I expected. Forgive me, I have been baking.” Muscular arms flexed as he reached behind himself to untie the apron, hanging it on a hook by the stove. “You must be Harry Potter.” He held out a hand.

Harry swallowed thickly, almost tripping over his feet in his haste to shake it. “Yes, ah, it’s nice to meet you.” He hadn’t realised that Fleur had gained her veela heritage from her father’s side! He’d never seen a male veela before, or even half-veela! He quickly tried to regain his composure. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Monsieur Delacour.”

“Please, please, call me François,” the man insisted, smiling brightly. “You are welcome here always — both my daughters are very fond of you.”

Gabrielle blushed at the insinuation, while Fleur just chuckled.

Still a little distracted by Fleur’s supernaturally gorgeous dad, Harry let himself be directed into a chair, and soon there was a large dish of food floating towards the table, as well as a bread board with a still-steaming loaf. It all smelled wonderful, and Harry’s stomach rumbled; he’d hardly eaten on the train over.

“How was your journey?” François asked, gesturing for Harry to serve himself. “I admit, I am fascinated by that new muggle enterprise. To have built a tunnel all the way beneath the sea! Completely without magic! They are industrious indeed.”

“It was certainly an experience,” Harry agreed. He hadn’t been on a train for that long before, and it had gotten a little claustrophobic at first, but he’d settled down with a book and soon time had flown by. The Channel Tunnel train had barely been open much longer than a year, and many of its passengers had been confused by this ordinary-looking teenage boy travelling by himself, no doubt wondering how he’d paid for the ticket.

Over lunch, the Delacour family made Harry feel entirely welcome, commiserating over his short stay with them. “Plenty of time for you to tell us about Fleur’s new beau,” François teased, watching his daughter flush. “He must be a special one, or she would have told us more.”

“She would ‘ave dumped ‘im by now, you mean, Papa,” Gabrielle added cheekily. Harry snickered.

“I’m a bit biased, but Bill is wonderful,” he assured. “And he loves your daughter very much.” Harry could still remember the shouting match that had occurred at Grimmauld Place once Bill had recovered well enough for Mrs Weasley to criticise his choice in girlfriend. Bill had refused to hear a bad word about Fleur, threatening to stop speaking to his mother entirely if she couldn’t accept their relationship.

“Biased?” François asked, raising an eyebrow.

“‘Arry is to be family, soon,” Fleur said, an impish lilt to her tone. Harry choked on his bread.

“What! I— steady on, Fleur, we’re just—“ He and George had barely been together a month! Regardless of all the time before in that space in-between.

Fleur giggled. “I did not mean like that, though it says a lot that your mind went straight there,” she added knowingly. Harry looked at her, puzzled, until the pieces clicked together and his jaw dropped.

“You? Did Bill—“ He glanced down at her left hand. Her grin widened.

“Not yet. But I may ‘ave found it in a drawer of ‘is desk. Bill does not know I know.” She looked to her father, happiness shining on her face. “That is another reason I was glad to come ‘ome, Papa. Bill ‘as not yet proposed, and I do not know when ‘e will, but I will say yes when that day comes.”

François looked gobsmacked. Harry beamed; that was brilliant! He couldn’t think of a more deserving couple than Bill and Fleur.

The three Delacours had a hurried discussion in French, then Fleur turned to Harry apologetically. “We are being rude,” she began, but he waved her off.

“I don’t mind. It’s fantastic news! Though I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep this from George,” he added with a grimace. “Or from Bill, to be honest. Hopefully he asks you soon.” There were enough secrets in his life that he was having to keep track of, but he was delighted to add this particular one to the mix.

He hoped he could be there when they told Mrs Weasley the good news.

The admission that Fleur was going to marry Bill when he asked changed the tone of the meal entirely, Fleur laughingly fending off her father’s enquiries, insisting that they were not actually engaged yet. When their plates were clear, she turned to Harry.

“Maman ‘as said we can floo to ‘er office when you are ready,” she told him. “You begin at two, oui?”

Harry checked his watch; it was just gone one now. His stomach flooded with nerves. “Yeah, first one is at two o’clock. We should get going, then?” With his exuberant welcome, he’d almost forgotten the real reason he was in France.

François cleared the table with a flick of his wand, and the smile he offered Harry made the teen’s stomach flip. George was never going to let him hear the end of this if he ever found out! And something about Fleur’s innocent expression made Harry positive the redhead would indeed find out.

He felt a little bit bad about mocking Ron for the way he acted around Fleur in fourth year, now.

“Good luck, ‘Arry,” Gabrielle chirped, bravely bouncing up to kiss him on the cheek before scurrying back to her father’s side.

“Indeed; good luck. We will see you this evening; your room is prepared. If you wish to leave your bag with us, I can put it away for you,” François offered, gesturing to the backpack beside Harry’s chair.

“Oh, thank you.” He couldn’t think of anything in it he needed, once he changed into the robes he had brought. Quills and ink would be supplied for him.

With Fleur leading the way, he soon found himself flooing into an office in the French Ministry building, and shaking hands with Apolline Delacour, a formidable-looking witch with a cascade of wavy blonde hair and intelligent grey eyes. She might not have the veela blood of her daughters, but she was still incredibly beautiful.

“I admit, when Fleur told me she was bringing home an English boy, I expected it to be that Mr Weasley of hers,” Apolline commented, making Fleur blush and Harry laugh.

“I’m sure she’ll bring him to meet you, soon,” he assured, not wanting to spoil Fleur’s big news. “Thank you so much for arranging this, Madame Delacour. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Nonsense. You saved my daughter’s life. Both of them,” the woman insisted softly. “Fleur told me about the freezing curse you cured her of. My family owes you many debts, Monsieur Potter, and I will do my best to begin to repay them.”

Harry glanced askance at Fleur. “There are no debts between family,” he said, watching Apolline’s shrewd gaze dart back to her daughter.

“Well,” she murmured. “I will take you to your first exam. Fleur, it seems we have much to discuss, non?”

Fleur grinned. “I will tell you everything, Maman,” she promised.

Harry walked with the two Delacour women down an empty corridor to a small room, holding two desks facing each other and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache. The man straightened up when they entered, offering a short bow. “Welcome. You must be Monsieur Potter. I am Professeur Gauthier.”

Harry shook the man’s hand, then pulled from his robe pocket his Gringotts-officiated birth certificate. Professeur Gauthier scanned the document, first with his eyes and then with his wand, before nodding sharply and handing it back to Harry. “That is all in order. You are set to take three exams this afternoon, correct?”

Harry nodded — his schedule had all but burned itself into his eyelids by now.

“Fantastique. Madame Delacour, I shall send for you when Monsieur Potter is finished, if that pleases you?”

The pair shared a short conversation in French, and while they did that Fleur turned to Harry. “You are smart,” she told him firmly. “And you are capable. I would wish you luck, but you do not need it.” She leaned in, kissing both his cheeks, and when she pulled back there was fire in her eyes. “Show your Ministry what they are missing out on, yes?”

Harry grinned back with the same fire, and nodded.

The two women left, and Gauthier gestured for Harry to take a seat at the desk. The chair glowed white, startling Harry. “To confirm you have no methods of cheating on your person,” Gauthier explained, setting a single quill and a pot of ink in front of him. “If you need more of either, please raise your hand. You have two hours.” Suddenly, two pieces of parchment appeared on the desk; one for Harry to write on, the other requesting he turn over when instructed. “You may begin.”

All of a sudden, a large hourglass appeared on the desk opposite; Gauthier’s desk. Harry immediately picked up his quill and flipped over the parchment, breathing out a steadying breath.

_‘International Standard Ordinary Wizarding Level — Charms Written Examination’_ it read at the top. Harry pushed down the squirming in his belly, turned his gaze to the first question, and got to work.

.-.-.-.

He was only in France for four days. Four days to take exams in ten subjects; many of which had both written and practical examinations. Fleur had thought him mad when he’d first suggested it, but Harry didn’t have the luxury of being away from home much longer. Every minute he spent out of Britain — at least, the minutes where he wasn’t focused on his exams — his heart raced with the fear that something big was going to happen while he was too far away to stop it.

Luckily, the universe seemed to be in his favour. He didn’t have a single Voldemort-related dream while he was with the Delacours — which meant he wasn’t entering his exams sleep deprived and high on headache remedy, another bonus. After that first day, he went to the French Ministry with Apolline, returned to the examination room, and only left for bathroom breaks until Apolline came to retrieve him to go home for dinner. The Ministry provided lunch for him, at his desk in that little room, and whichever member of the education department was supervising him would apologise that he could not go outside and get more fresh air than their open window allowed. Harry didn’t mind. He was used to being stuck inside by now — it wasn’t worth the risk that someone might see him and recognise Harry Potter.

It was incredibly fortunate for him, that Apolline Delacour was the head of the Department of Education and Examinations in France. He hadn’t expected that when he’d hesitantly floated the idea of taking his exams in another country to Fleur, all those months ago. She had been eager to enlist her mother for help, promising Harry that she could get him qualified at the same time as his friends, if not sooner.

Everyone who interacted with Harry was sworn to secrecy over his presence, but Harry doubted that was even really necessary — none of them held much admiration for the English Ministry, and they all seemed delighted to be getting one over on Cornelius Fudge. Taking his examinations in France technically made Harry a student of the French education system, so not only would his grades reflect well on them but it would allow him to seek employment in France and its allied magical communities, even if the English Ministry refused to ever overturn his expulsion and recognise the qualifications. It gave Harry options, even if Fudge managed to retain power. Even if destroying Voldemort took much longer than Harry anticipated.

So for four days, he punished himself with a rigorous exam schedule, and went home to the Delacour household in the evenings, welcomed with excellent food and bright conversation and plenty of encouragement for his remaining exams. Fleur’s family were truly wonderful, and he couldn’t wait for Bill to meet them one day. One day soon, as he had promised to Apolline, agreeing to pester Fleur if she did not arrange a trip home once she was officially engaged.

He missed his family, of course. At night when he went to bed he pulled the two-way mirror from his backpack and called George, demanding to know if anything had happened while he was gone. Being on the mirror reminded him of when the twins had been at Hogwarts, but it was easier this time. For one, he knew he wouldn’t be away long, but also the twins were no longer at risk of Umbridge.

At risk of Death Eaters was another matter, but Harry just tried not to think about that possibility.

The exams themselves were going far better than he’d anticipated — either the Hogwarts professors made them sound far harder than reality in order to scare students into studying, or he’d learned a whole lot more in the last eight months than he’d realised. The written exams went smoothly — even Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, which he’d put himself forward for only at Bill’s urging — and the examiners carrying out his practical exams delighted in his free use of wandless magic. At first they seemed a little baffled how to grade him properly, when they were supposed to take wand movements into account, but the power and effectiveness of his spells spoke for themselves. Professeur Gauthier, who ended up giving Harry’s Defence Against the Dark Arts practical exam, almost fell to the floor in shock at the sight of Harry’s wandless, corporeal patronus. “Mon Dieu,” the man murmured, awed gaze fixed on the glowing white stag. “This at fifteen… your English Ministry had made a foolish mistake.”

Harry just grinned.

When he set his quill down at the end of his Transfiguration written exam, the very last exam in his schedule, a wave of relief overcame him. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at Professeur Bernard, who flipped the hourglass, summoned his papers and tapped them with her wand to make them disappear up to her office. “Congratulations, Monsieur Potter — you have completed your examinations.”

With a wave of her wand, a small blue bird made of light appeared in the air, zooming towards the door and squeezing through the keyhole. Harry knew the bird would make its way to Apolline, to let her know he was done for the day.

“How do you feel that one went?” Professeur Bernard asked, tucking a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. She was the youngest of the people working in the department — at least the ones Harry had met — and she had been so overjoyed with his Arithmancy practical she had practically handed him the pass certificate there and then.

“Well, I think. There was nothing I hadn’t prepared for.” He made a mental note to thank Sirius when he got home, for incorporating so many transfiguration-based prank spells into Harry’s daily life. It had made explaining the theory behind many of them far easier than he’d anticipated.

There was a knock on the door, and Apolline stepped inside, beaming. “You finished early,” she noted, glancing at the hourglass, which had stopped spilling sand when Professeur Bernard had turned it over, showing he still had at least a quarter of his allotted time remaining.

“If I’d started reading my answers back a third time, I would have started to doubt myself,” Harry pointed out wryly. Both women laughed.

“Is it time, then?” Professeur Bernard asked Apolline, who nodded. Harry looked puzzled. Time for what?

To his surprise, Apolline did not open the door and lead the way back to her office, as she had done every day prior. Instead she looked at Harry, wearing an impish expression very much like her daughter’s. “There is one more test for you to take, if you please, Harry.”

Harry wracked his brain in panic, trying to figure out which one he’d missed. He didn’t have time for another test! He had to take his train back to London soon!

He couldn’t think of anything, and he wondered if it was some sort of French addition to the exam schedule, some subject he wasn’t aware of that he’d been signed up to by accident. Apolline chuckled at his look of alarm. “My daughter tells me you know how to apparate.”

“I— apparition isn’t legal until you’re seventeen,” he answered automatically. Apolline’s smile widened.

“Ordinarily, yes. However, in the French Ministry, we sometimes allow those who are not yet of age to get their license, if they have need of it and show a firm grasp of their magic. For young people who must work to aid their families or their siblings, or have safety concerns that would be eased by their ability to apparate. As you have taken your OWLs with us, that makes you enough of a French student to gain your apparition license here as well. Should you ever have need of the skill and get caught, you will not have to fear punishment from your English Ministry. The French will protect your rights.”

Harry gaped at her. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve the backing of such an incredible, high-powered woman — and an entire _nation_ , from the sounds of things — but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“What does the exam entail?”

Apolline beamed at him. “I am qualified to examine for an apparition license, as is Professeur Gauthier, who is currently in my office. Fleur is there also.” She winked. “There is a designated spot in front of the fireplace. We will see you there.” With that, she turned on the spot and vanished with a quiet pop.

Harry turned to Professeur Bernard, offering his hand. “Thank you again for giving up your time for me,” he said, knowing that every single one of the invigilators who had helped him this week had made room in their own busy schedules just for that. Private exam sessions were practically unheard of, even for homeschooled students, and Harry was well aware how lucky he was that they had all been willing to do this for him.

“It was a pleasure, Monsieur Potter,” she insisted, cheeks dimpling when she smiled. “I look forward to seeing where your magic takes you, as strong as it is. Now go; they are waiting.”

Checking he wasn’t leaving anything behind, Harry squared his shoulders and mentally pictured Apolline’s office, with the square rug in front of the fireplace. Gathering his magic, he spun on his heel—

— And reappeared right where he had anticipated, meeting Fleur’s bright gaze. The blonde witch cheered when he appeared, and Harry turned to see Apolline and Professeur Gauthier stood beside her desk. Harry held out his arms and twirled slowly, as if to prove he had not splinched or damaged himself in the journey. Apolline laughed. “Very well done, Harry,” she complimented. Professeur Gauthier had a clipboard floating in front of him and an ornate peacock quill in hand.

“Indeed, Monsieur Potter; I am happy to report a successful examination.” He ticked something on his clipboard, then scrawled his name with a flourish, and the parchment vanished in a sizzle of green smoke. “Congratulations. The apparition license is valid immediately, and the rest of your examination results should be processed by the end of the examination period. You have already signed your secrecy contract, and Madame Delacour has assured me she will get your results directly to you once they are ready.” His lips curled upwards beneath his moustache. “It has truly been a delight working with you, Monsieur Potter. Should you wish to sit your NEWT-level examinations with us, the French Ministry would be honoured to oblige you.”

“I— thank you. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

“I daresay Harry could sit his NEWTs the day he gets his OWL results back and still get straight-Os,” Apolline remarked slyly, making him blush. She hadn’t been responsible for overseeing any of his examinations — to avoid a conflict of interest, given the ties between their families — but she assured Harry she had talked to those who had, and he had done very well indeed.

Professeur Gauthier said his goodbyes, and Harry turned to the two witches still in the room. “I suppose I’d best make my way to the station, then.” He’d said his goodbyes to Gabrielle and François that morning, promising Gabrielle he’d come back to visit sometime soon when things were safer. His backpack was beside Apolline’s desk, ready for him to floo to the train station. All international magical travel was monitored, but the Ministry didn’t even think of keeping an eye on muggle transportation. No one in England would know Harry had even left, unless he told them.

Fleur’s smile dropped. “You are welcome to stay another night and come back with me, through Gringotts,” she offered for the dozenth time. Harry shook his head; as tempting as it was, he couldn’t risk it.

“No, you have a good night with your family; I think I’ve monopolised their time long enough,” he joked. Sure, Fleur spent time with her family while Harry was sitting his exams, but it wasn’t the same. She deserved to spend some time with just them — once she was back in England, she didn’t know when she would see them again.

The goodbyes were fond, Apolline assuring he was welcome in their home whenever he wished, and Fleur promising she would see him the next day once she too was back in England. His heart twisting, Harry stepped into the floo, calling the name for the station fireplaces.

He was sad to leave, but he couldn’t wait to see his own family again.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no George in the last chapter. So have some smut to make up for that :P

Despite everything, Harry continued to have terrible timing.

When he reached St Pancras station, weariness beginning to set in after a gruelling week and the long train journey, he found a hidden corner and apparated away — he was too tired to bother with the tube at that time of night, and going to the wizarding sector of the station to floo out would mean going across to King’s Cross and stepping onto Platform 9 & 3/4, which his heart couldn’t take at that moment. So, taking advantage of his new French license, he spun on his heel and thought of the twins’ shop.

He was surprised to see how much progress they had made while he was gone — the place was a riot of colour, and half the displays were full now. The wards parted easily for him, and he hurried up to the flat, eager to see their faces — one in particular.

However, the flat was empty when he reached it. A frown coming to his lips as unease squirmed in his gut, Harry looked around for some sort of note. He hadn’t actually told them what time he would be coming home, or suggested he would stop in on the way. Perhaps they were out with friends? He’d heard Oliver Wood was in town for a game at the weekend.

Somewhat forlorn, and refusing to even consider any more sinister reasons for the pair to be out, Harry turned to their fireplace.

And flooed right into the middle of an Order meeting.

Everyone in the room stared at him. Harry stared back dumbly — had he known there was going to be a meeting, and just forgotten in his tiredness?

“Harry! Where on Earth have you been?” Mrs Weasley jumped to her feet. “I haven’t seen you in _days_ , Sirius said you were only out for a walk this evening! Where did you floo in from? Who were you with? You’re supposed to be avoiding magical spaces, it’s dangerous!”

“Oh, y’know,” Harry replied with a shrug. “Had some Gringotts business. It was a bit late, but that’s goblins for you. Money never sleeps.” He chuckled. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“I will admit to also being intrigued, Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore piped up before Harry could excuse himself. “As Molly said; no one has seen you in several days now. I myself have been here multiple times in the last week, and you have been gone the whole time.”

Harry bit back a grimace, wondering what kind of lies his godfathers and the twins had been spinning to try and keep people off his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Sirius mime something.

“I’ve started running, now the weather’s better,” he explained, hoping that was what Sirius was trying to get at. The discreet thumbs-up made his shoulders relax. “Got to stay fit, after all.”

“Running, in jeans?” Elphias Doge asked doubtfully, eyeing him over.

“No — I was at Gringotts tonight,” Harry reminded. “But the days before I was probably running when Albus and Molly were over. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He could tell that hardly anyone believed his story about going running, but he wasn’t going to invite further questions from anyone who cared. Veering around the full table and leaving the kitchen, he headed up to his room before a proper interrogation could begin.

Harry told himself he hadn’t told the rest of the Order for safety reasons, not wanting anyone to know he’d been _reckless_ enough to leave the country through muggle means and then show his face at the French Ministry. He resolutely ignored the little voice that pointed out that the fewer people who knew, the fewer people he had to admit to when he failed all his exams.

Apolline had told him he’d done well. That voice could fuck off.

Tossing the laundry from his backpack into the hamper, Harry grabbed clean clothes and made a beeline for his bathroom — he’d done his Potions practical that morning, and his hair still felt a little lank from the fumes of his Draught of Peace. No wonder Snape always looked so greasy, from the time he spent hunched over a cauldron.

François had snuck him a stasis-charmed lunchbox with a dish of homemade ratatouille and a small selection of sweet pastries, which he’d discovered and then demolished on the train home, so he had no need to brave the Order meeting and hunt down dinner. Instead, Harry got himself clean and sprawled out on his bed, letting the events of the past week wash over him.

He had taken his OWLs. It might not be legal in England due to his expulsion, but he would have some sort of qualifications to his name soon — provided he hadn’t failed them all dismally. He had taken the first steps to securing his future, outside of the whole Dark Lord situation.

Secretly, he was sort of glad he couldn’t write to his friends. Even though the secrecy contract he’d signed made it physically impossible to tell anyone the contents of the exam, to avoid giving advance notice to any students yet to take this year’s examination, he knew Hermione would insist he dissect every second of his time at the French Ministry, and practically recite his answers back to her. Ron would be jealous that Harry had got his exams out of the way early, and been able to take them in private so no one else could see if he messed up. At Hogwarts, Harry knew, they took practical exams in groups in the Great Hall.

Harry didn’t want to go over his answers, or talk about what the exams were like. Quite frankly, he wanted to push the whole thing from his mind entirely — at least until his results came.

His foot bounced restlessly. How long would it take, he wondered, for the results to arrive. Gauthier had said ‘by the end of the examination period’. Did that mean when everyone had taken the exams, or when they had all been marked? Would he have to wait until the summer to get his results back?

His foot bounced more aggressively, his fingers tapping on the hollow of his ribs. He wasn’t sure he could wait that long and not think about it. Now he’d taken the exams, that was half his study time empty — unless he wanted to get a head start on NEWT work. He could spend more time training, but those who would help him were getting busier and busier these days. It was hard to practice duelling by yourself.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realise how much time had passed — and thus almost jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door. He flicked it open, hoping it wasn’t Dumbledore come to interrogate him some more, and grinned at the sight of George.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” George drawled, shutting the door and practically pouncing on the bed. Harry caught him easily, pulling him down into a messy kiss.

“Missed you,” he murmured, hands tangling in George’s t-shirt.

“Missed you too, gorgeous,” George replied, kissing along Harry’s jaw. “Everyone’s gone home. Freddie and I are about to head back. You wanna come with? Padfoot says it’s fine,” he added before Harry could argue.

Harry thought about it, his hands on George’s backside. He hadn’t seen his godfathers in days, and they were probably keen to hear about his time in France. He should stay with them.

_But_. George was here and warm and so devastatingly sexy with his grin and his tight grey t-shirt and his messy hair. Harry had missed him, too. And he seemed pretty keen to _not_ hear about Harry’s time in France. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come.”

“Mm, at least once, I promise,” George murmured salaciously, pressing himself against Harry before pulling back, tugging Harry up with him. “Let’s go.”

As promised, the kitchen was far emptier. Sirius and Remus were smirking knowingly at their godson. “Don’t worry about us, kid,” Sirius assured, ruffling his hair. “Despite being _positively ancient_ , we remember what exams were like. Go hang out with the twins, you can tell us everything tomorrow.”

Remus kissed him on the forehead, then shoved him back over towards George. “He’s all yours, boys. Do try and have him back in one piece, whenever you feel like throwing him back our way. No rush, though. Moon’s tonight.”

Harry hadn’t realised, and he grimaced; that explained why Remus was looking a little grey in the face. “Hope it’s a calm one,” he replied, earning a smile.

Harry flooed over to the flat, and Fred ruffled his hair. “Good to have you back, mate. This one’s been useless; too busy pining for you,” he joked, gesturing to his brother. “Drink?” He summoned several butterbeers, tossing one to Harry.

“Useless, he says,” George retorted with a gasp. “Which one of us finally perfected the isolation on the cushioning charm!”

“You got it?” Harry asked eagerly; the project had been bothering George since before Harry had left, trying to figure out how to make some slap-bracelets turn only a person’s hands weightless and elastic, rather than their whole body. _Marshmallow Fists of Fury_ , they wanted to call them; goad someone into hitting something, sneak the bracelet on them and watch their pathetic useless fists go to work.

“I did, the genius that I am,” George preened, tilting his head down for the congratulatory kiss Harry offered. “That’s another one ticked off the list.”

They were working so quickly through their list of products to get ready for the grand opening. Harry was sure they’d have it all done well ahead of schedule.

One congratulatory kiss turned into two, until Fred sprayed them with a blast of water from his wand. “Alright, alright, we’ll behave!” Harry assured laughingly, drying them both.

“For now,” George murmured, breath hot on Harry’s ear, hand sneaking down to squeeze his bum.

Harry stomped down on the arousal within him, refusing to get a boner while they were still hanging out with Fred. Something George seemed to be taking as a challenge.

The living room of the flat now had two comfy sofas and an armchair, and Harry and George claimed their usual sofa, George pulling Harry half into his lap. As the twins updated Harry on everything they’d been up to in the last few days, George kept one hand on Harry’s thigh, stroking gently with his thumb. It was driving Harry absolutely _insane_ , and he was glad when Fred declared he was going to call it a night.

Harry and George retreated to George’s room, and as soon as the door was shut and silenced Harry had George slammed up against it, his fingers tugging at the hem of the older boy’s t-shirt. “You bloody tease,” he growled, pulling away long enough just to wrestle George’s shirt over his head. George smirked devilishly, and Harry’s pulse jumped.

“Just letting you know I’m glad to have you home,” George teased, removing Harry’s shirt, mindful of his glasses. “Y’know, I remember the night exams ended back in our OWL year. The only thing anyone wanted to do was celebrate.” He whirled them around, pinning Harry to the door by his wrists, mouthing along his shoulder. “What do you think? You want to celebrate?”

“I want you naked,” Harry muttered with a pointed glance at the redhead’s jeans. George’s smirk widened.

“Sounds like a celebration to me. Your wish is my command.” He stepped back, and Harry took the opportunity to kick off his shoes and socks and make himself comfortable on the bed. George stood in front of him, hands moving leisurely to the fly of his jeans. He unzipped and let his jeans fall from his hips as if there was no rush whatsoever. When his fingers curled in the waistband of his boxers, Harry whimpered quietly, eyes fixed on the bulge in the bright blue fabric. George grinned. He turned around, bending over pointedly as he pulled his boxers down, giving a little shake of his arse in Harry’s direction.

At last, he faced Harry, fully naked. It was a sight Harry had only been privy to a handful of times now — if you didn’t count the quidditch changing rooms, which he absolutely didn’t because that was _totally not the same_ — and every time it took his breath away. George was _incredible_ , his quidditch-muscled thighs dusted with freckles and red-blond hairs, his cock standing proud, a faint scar on the ridge of his hipbone from an incident as a kid. Harry wanted to touch every inch of that creamy freckled skin — he held his arms out pointedly, beckoning George closer.

“Merlin, the way you look at me,” George breathed, stalking towards him. He knelt on the end of the bed, between Harry’s legs, and reached up to flick open the button on Harry’s jeans. His fingers pressed teasingly against Harry’s straining length as he undid the zip, and then with a quick yank on the cuffs of the jeans he was whipping them off and tossing them to the floor. “These coming off, too?” he asked, finger tracing the lower edge of Harry’s boxers. Harry arched up into the touch.

“Please.”

George peeled Harry’s boxers down with near-reverent hands, staring at the naked seeker lying in his bed like Harry was a feast and he a starving man. Harry resisted the urge to squirm, knowing it would just make George’s admiration become more blatant. The older Gryffindor didn’t like Harry trying to downplay his attractiveness, or any other part of himself.

George’s hands skimmed up Harry’s calves and thighs, dodging the one area most desperate for touch and continuing up his stomach and chest, callused fingertips flicking at pert nipples. “What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asked, voice slow and treacle-thick, pupils blown wide. “It’s your celebration, after all. How do you want me, Harry?”

The words stole the breath from Harry’s lungs, his brain shorting out as he tried to think of a response. There were dozens of ways he wanted George right now; how was he supposed to pick one?

There was still so much they hadn’t done together, things Harry had heard about at school or read in the book he’d been given for Christmas; things he was eager to get to but unwilling to rush this achingly, _gloriously_ slow journey George had set them on, determined to learn every little inch of Harry’s body and what made it tick.

George moved one hand to Harry’s side, brushing gentle fingers over the line of his waist in the way he knew made Harry’s skin spark with pleasure. The dark-haired boy gasped, arching up to the touch, feeling his cock jump at the sensation. “Touch me,” he begged. George smirked wolfishly.

“But I am,” he breathed, pointedly running his nails over the ridges of Harry’s ribs. “Gonna have to be more specific.”

“I—“ Harry was lost, his brain a puddle of goo somewhere on the mattress, his senses oblivious to everything but the feel of George’s hands on him, the scent of the redhead’s sheets, the taste of his mouth still on Harry’s lips.

“I can touch you here,” George told him softly, trailing a hand down to wrap around Harry’s straining erection. Harry groaned deep in the back of his throat. “Or, if you’re feeling brave…” The redhead leaned over Harry, propped up with one hand beside his head, lowering down until his chest just barely touched Harry’s. “I can touch you… here.” His fingers moved to run delicately over Harry’s balls, drifting behind them but not going any further. The look in his eyes made it clear what he was suggesting, and for a moment Harry thought he was going to come there and then.

“Yes,” he blurted in a whisper, cheeks burning at his own eagerness. “Fuck, George, please. Do you have—“ George’s full body pressed against him as he reached across into his bedside drawer, coming back with a potion vial full of a glistening pale pink liquid. “Nice.” He pressed up for an eager kiss. “How— how d’you wanna do this? Should I…?” He gestured as if to roll over, and George stayed him with a hand to his chest.

“Only if you want to. Sometimes it’s more comfortable that way, but I’m gonna go slow, so that shouldn’t really matter. And I’m not— we’re not, y’know, going the whole way tonight, are we?”

Harry thought about it, for a moment. It was tempting. George’s cock was right there, thick and hard. He swallowed. Thicker than his toy from the muggle shop, which he’d only tried a couple of times before.

Taking their time was probably the better idea. It had worked out well for him so far. “Not tonight,” he assured. A thought occurred to him, and he tensed. “Do we even have time for this tonight?” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay.

“We’ve got all night, if you want,” George suggested tentatively. “Moony and Pads will be busy with the full — Remus told me to keep you ’til morning. If… if you want to stay.”

Despite their compromising position, his eyes were hesitant and hopeful, and Harry’s heart ached with affection. “I’d love to,” he assured, pulling George in for another kiss. They hadn’t shared a bed at night since that one Death Eater raid where Bill almost died, but just that once was enough for Harry to be addicted to the feeling of waking up in George’s arms.

“Good.” George’s grin was boyish and happy, before he remembered what they were in the middle of — he smirked, uncorking the vial. “Then just lie back and trust me, gorgeous.” He adjusted Harry a little, putting a pillow beneath his hips and making sure he was comfortable. “This is gonna feel weird at first,” he warned, dipping his fingers into the potion vial.

“I know. I… I’ve tried stuff, myself, a couple times,” Harry admitted shyly. A drop of clear fluid spurted from the tip of George’s cock, and he moaned softly.

“You’re gonna kill me with that mental image.” He leaned down, kissing Harry hard. “You liked it, playing with yourself?”

“Yeah. My wrist didn’t really bend right to get my fingers in enough, but I’ve got this… um. Do wizards have sex toys?” He honestly had no idea. It had never really come up in conversation.

George looked like he was barely holding on by a thread. “You’re so hot it should be _illegal_ , Potter.” He ran his now-slicked fingers down Harry’s length, taking his time to his destination. “Yes, wizards have sex toys. Not many places to get them, though. Something we’ve thought about expanding the shop for, one day.” He smirked, eyes sparkling. “Could be fun to test those kinds of products, hmm?” Slowly, carefully, his first finger slipped inside Harry. “You telling me you’ve got some muggle toys? Oh, darling, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Was gonna tell you eventually,” Harry replied, squirming desperately in an attempt to get George to go deeper. He was taking everything so incredibly slowly — he always said he was giving Harry time to get used to things, but Harry wondered if the redhead wasn’t just trying to kill him with overstimulation instead. “There’s a shop near Grimmauld.”

“Oh? Maybe we can go there for your birthday,” George suggested softly, pressing butterfly kisses up Harry’s neck as he moved his hand expertly. “Buy you something nice.”

“This is gonna be over a lot faster than either of us would like if you keep talking like that,” Harry panted, trying to keep his hips from bucking up, searching for friction, for release.

George’s answering smile was pure seduction. “That’s okay. We have all night, remember?”

Harry’s breath hitched. _Merlin_ , it was good to be home.


	28. Chapter 28

With his exams out of the way, that was one burden removed from Harry’s shoulders. Between that and the knowledge that Bill’s cursebreaking team had the ritual ready whenever he needed it, Harry was quite possibly the calmest he’d ever been as May ticked over into June. He only grew anxious when he thought of his friends — both worried about how they were all coping with Umbridge, and worried about how Ron was coping with Hermione in the pre-OWL stress, without Harry around to even things out.

Those around him kept him occupied whenever he fell into those sorts of thoughts, though — now that Harry had his exams out of the way, Sirius was currently campaigning for him to learn to be an animagus. The twins thought it was the coolest idea ever, and so Harry had been gently bullied into agreeing; they were all meditating regularly, and Fred was brewing the potion to help them discover their forms. It would need to mature for a month, so Harry was happy to leave that to be a future problem. He was just glad the potion had been invented so they didn’t have to use the more complicated alternative of keeping a mandrake leaf in their mouths for a month. That just sounded impractical.

The Ministry was getting busier, and thus the Order members employed by the Ministry were getting busier. Mrs Weasley had come over to Grimmauld several evenings in the last few weeks to eat dinner with them all as her husband was working late — which had resulted in a few close calls for the twins, and one _very_ close call for George and Harry getting a bit of time alone in Harry’s room. But so far she was oblivious to both the shop and the relationship.

Harry had given up being nosy about the Ministry once he’d realised it was mostly just Fudge trying to ‘streamline’ things to make rooting out dark magic users more ‘efficient’. The idea seemed to be getting bankrolled by Lucius Malfoy, so they all had severe doubts about its efficacy, and it seemed with the Order and a few sympathisers involved it would be fairly easy to crumble the whole thing to make the Ministry look like fools. On top of that, Dumbledore was still doing his part to be a general nuisance to Fudge, which was something Harry could appreciate, and so he didn’t let life outside Grimmauld bother him as much — sure, it was frustrating not to be doing anything, but he at least knew that those who were capable of doing so were working towards a positive future. Not just in the immediate form of getting rid of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

“Oi, Harry!” He looked up, seeing the twins grinning at him.

“When did you two get here?” Harry asked, sitting up on the library sofa he was sprawled over. “Is your mum around again?” Unable to help himself, his cheeks coloured at the reminder of what had almost happened last time she came over. Fred snickered.

“Nah, not yet at least,” he assured. George plonked himself down on the sofa beside Harry, leaning in for a kiss. He was beaming when he pulled back.

“That happy to see me, are you?” Harry teased. George wiggled his eyebrows.

“Always. But it’s a good news day — the shop’s all ready to open.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really? Already?” There was still just under a month until school would let out.

“Yup! We won’t open yet, of course — still waiting until the students are able to come visit — but we’ve sent a notice to the Prophet to advertise our grand opening for July 6th. Thank Merlin Mum still won’t read the damned thing.” Even with Harry expelled, they were printing such outrageous lies about Dumbledore and his supporters that Mrs Weasley couldn’t look at the paper without wanting to set it on fire. “We’ve got loads of stock built up, and the variety of products we wanted. There’s a few things with a shorter shelf life we’ll start prepping closer to the time, and some more ideas in the works, but… we didn’t want to overwhelm people at the start.”

“Let everyone get a chance at the classics before we throw new stuff at them,” Fred chimed in, grinning as wide as his twin. “We’ve got the shop floor set up how we want it, just about. We’re really pleased with it all.”

They hadn’t let Harry down into the shop itself in a week now, insisting they wanted him to be surprised when it was all done. Harry perked up. “Does that mean I can come see it now?”

The twins exchanged a look. “Well, we wanted to ask you about that, actually,” Fred began, and Harry was surprised to see he looked… _nervous_?

“The whole place is really well-warded, you know how much Bill layered on that place,” George continued.

“We haven’t had anyone inside the shop yet, except you, because my dear brother starts to waste away if he goes more than about an hour without snogging you,” Fred added teasingly, dodging the halfhearted kick George aimed his way.

“We were thinking… if we made dinner tonight, d’you think Sirius and Remus could be persuaded to come over? See the flat, and the shop, and everything?”

“Come see where their precious godson is being kidnapped to,” Fred finished, turning hopeful eyes on Harry. “You’re invited too, if that wasn’t clear.”

“I don’t think it would take any persuasion whatsoever,” Harry told them with a grin. “Sirius has been bugging me about your place for _weeks_.”

The twins’ faces lit up. “You really think they’d come?”

“Absolutely. Kreacher can hold down the fort, one night of this house being empty won’t break the universe.” They would only be a floo journey away. “Let’s go ask them.”

Harry jumped to his feet, pulling George along by the hand while Fred followed in bemusement. “Padfoot!” Harry yelled into the stairwell, injecting a little magic into his voice — their tried-and-true method of figuring out where the hell someone was in a house so expansive. Thanks to Bill and Fleur’s ward bubble, Walburga’s portrait hadn’t made a sound in months.

“In the upper drawing room!” Sirius’ disembodied voice called back. Harry hurried upstairs to the room in question. Sirius and Remus were both in there, and they raised their eyebrows at the sight of the trio. “You off to their place again?” Sirius presumed. Harry grinned at him.

“Not quite. The twins have something to ask you.” Harry pushed them forward, watching the pair face his godfathers with deer-in-headlights expressions.

“We, uh— we were wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight. The three of you,” Fred stuttered out, all his confidence vanishing in the face of his pranking idols.

“The shop’s finished,” George explained. “We know visiting might be tricky once we open, so… would the great Moony and Padfoot honour us humble pranksters in accepting a private tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”

Sirius looked like Christmas had arrived early. “We are the honoured ones!” he insisted. “The chance to see the future of mischief at Hogwarts, there’s no way we could say no! Right, Moony?” He turned his wide-eyed gaze on his partner like a child begging for sweets. Remus smiled fondly.

“Absolutely. What time do you want us?”

“Floo in around seven? We’ll have dinner on the table,” George promised, looking practically giddy. “It’s not Mum’s cooking, but I’d say we’ve learnt plenty from her.”

Harry, who had eaten quite a bit of the twins’ cooking over the last few weeks, had no complaints about the quality, and said as much.

“Great. We’ll see you all at seven, then,” Fred confirmed.

“Even me?” Harry had hoped to go back with them; there were a few hours before seven, after all.

“Especially you,” Fred insisted, pointing an accusing finger at him. “If you come back with us, I’ll be doing all the work for sure.”

Harry’s godfathers both laughed, while Harry pouted. George leaned in to kiss the pout off his lips. “The surprise will be worth the wait, I promise.”

Harry knew it would be, but that didn’t stop him being annoyed about it. But he huffed and kissed George goodbye, already mentally planning to stay the night at the flat.

.-.-.

At seven PM on the dot, Harry flooed through to the twins’ flat, immediately stepping aside for Sirius and Remus to follow.

They arrived together, and Harry could see the amazement on their faces as they surveyed the flat. He couldn’t blame them — it wasn’t what people would expect from the chaos-embodying Weasley twins.

While the purple firework wallpaper was bold, it fit in well with the more neutral decor of the rest of the place. Their two favourite colours of purple and orange could have clashed awfully in the flat, but they had chosen great shades for the paint and kept it fairly toned down with all the greys. The tall bookshelf opposite the fireplace was full to bursting with both books and all manner of odd knick-knacks, and one wall held a bunch of framed photos of the twins’ family and friends. A rather curious plant — quite literally, as its flowers turned inquisitively towards the visitors — lived in one corner, and the coffee table was neat and stacked with a couple of potions’ magazines.

They had clearly tidied up for their guests, but it was definitely not what anyone would anticipate from a pair of eighteen year-old boys, especially not ones like the twins. Harry felt a small flutter of pride in his chest as he watched his godfathers react.

“Wow; love what you’ve done in here!” Sirius enthused. “Clearly I should’ve taken decorating tips from the pair of you when Harry and I started working on Grimmauld.”

“We’ve still got plenty of rooms to work on,” Harry reminded him. Rooms they’d given up on when they realised how little they had use for them at this time. One day, when the war was over and they could pester more people into decorating, they’d finish the place off properly.

Sirius was still determined to get his mother’s portrait off the wall and burn it, one day.

“It certainly suits you,” Remus complimented. The twins stood a little straighter. Remus was right — it suited the genius, creative young men the twins really were, not the whirlwind of mischief and ridiculousness so many people couldn’t look past.

“Thanks, Moony. We like it,” George preened.

“Home sweet home,” Fred agreed. “Now, dinner’s all set to go. We even picked up a good bottle of wine to go with.”

He gestured to their dining table, a beautiful dark wood piece Harry had found at a muggle second hand shop for an absolute steal. It was all set up for five people, a huge pan of delicious-smelling lasagne in the centre beside a salad bowl, garlic bread, and a bottle of red wine. Harry’s eyebrows rose — the boys really were going all-out to impress the Marauders.

“This looks amazing,” he complimented, pecking George on the cheek and taking his usual chair beside the redhead. With a wave of Fred’s wand, the wine began to pour — it hesitated above the glass in front of Harry.

“Oh, go ahead,” Sirius assured with a dismissive wave. “Glass of wine with dinner never hurt anyone.”

The bottle resumed pouring. Fred winked at Harry.

The food was as incredible as it looked, and both Marauders were full of compliments for it.

“So you’re enjoying living by yourselves, then?” Remus asked knowingly, glancing around the flat. Both twins nodded.

“It’s brilliant,” Fred enthused.

“We love Mum, but she’s always been a bit…” George trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

“Having our own place where no one’s gonna mess with our experiments or complain about what we put in it is a dream.” Fred’s grin turned impish. “And being able to go to my own room and ignore when those two start getting frisky makes everything worth it.”

Sirius barked out a laugh as his godson blushed.

“I bet! I was the same when we moved out of Hogwarts — I moved in with Prongs and Lily, and it was such a relief to be able to shut the pair of them away when they attached at the face, rather than having to put up with it in the dorms.”

Harry wondered if he and George would have been equally obnoxious had they been at Hogwarts together all year. It certainly would’ve been harder to find somewhere to be alone.

He sipped at his wine, leaning back and enjoying the easy flow of conversation between the twins and his godfathers. The twins were absolutely loving the chance to get to speak to the older pranksters without the rest of the Order around — but there was something different about the evening, too. It held more weight to it than all the dinners the twins had joined at Grimmauld Place, even when it was just the five of them.

Perhaps it was the wine, but it rather felt like Harry was introducing his boyfriend to his parents — or the closest thing he had to parents, at least. Even with Fred there, much of the conversation was focused on George, and now Harry had recognised it he could see how Remus and Sirius were subtly grilling the redhead. Fred, looking amused at the whole affair, had clearly caught on a while ago.

Harry looked at the table with its beautiful place settings and matching cloth napkins; the label on the bottle of wine marking it a very good vintage indeed; the fact that the twins were wearing smart trousers and button-ups instead of their usual jeans and t-shirts.

Yes, this was definitely a meet-the-parents situation, and he’d walked into it completely oblivious. He was just glad he’d dressed up a little regardless, wanting to make George regret kicking him out of the flat for the afternoon.

His anxiety picked up now he was aware of the situation, though he wasn’t sure why — his godfathers adored George, and even if they hadn’t the redhead was on top form tonight, and would have won them over easily. Especially when he brought out a decadent-looking chocolate gateaux for dessert. Remus looked like he wanted to eat the entire thing himself.

“When’s the grand opening, then?” Sirius asked, practically bouncing in his chair when conversation turned to the shop downstairs.

“July 6th. School lets out on the third, so that’ll give some of the kids a chance to pester their parents into bringing them. I bet they’ll be pretty keen for some laughs after the year they’ve had,” Fred remarked, sadness flashing across his face.

“Blimey, yeah. Are you still able to fill owl orders to the school?”

“Thankfully, yes. With a little help from Dobby,” George added. “We’ve got a pretty limited catalogue for the owl orders at the moment, though; just stuff we know we can get past Umbridge’s detection.”

“Ah, purebloods. Always underestimating house elves,” Remus said wryly.

Almost as soon as the werewolf set his fork down on the empty plate, Sirius was up on his feet. “Can we go see the shop now?” he begged, making Remus laugh.

“If the boys are ready to show us.”

The twins were more than ready, and they led the way over to the stairs. Harry’s own stomach was bubbling with excitement, wondering how far the shop had come since he’d last been in it.

All the lights were off when they stepped through the back room into the main shop itself. “Ready?” the twins asked in unison, not waiting for a response before they magically lit up everything.

Harry’s breath left his lungs in a swift punch of shock. It was _extraordinary_. Every corner of the three-storey shop was a riot of colour, the individually themed displays flowing smoothly from one to the next. Almost everything was fully stocked, except for the shelves waiting for the products that needed to be made fresh. Bold-coloured signs people pointed in the direction of various categories of prank or toy, and several displays were set up in the wider spaces to show off the most popular products, including one of their Reusable Hangman sets, the tiny gallows set up for the little wooden man.

“Sweet Merlin,” Remus breathed, craning his neck to see how far up the place went. It was enormous on the inside — one of the reasons the twins had jumped on it so keenly. Early on, Harry had doubts about their ability to fill the place before they had time to work on future projects, and the twins had assured him they had it covered. That was definitely the case; while there was plenty of space for future additions, there wasn’t an inch of the shop that looked unfinished or neglected.

“We’re gonna have fireworks going up in the roof there,” Fred told them. “And— oh, hang on.” He waved his wand, and suddenly there was a whistle of steam, and a model train began chugging around a track that wound through the entire shop. It pulled five open-topped carriages, which were all full of sweets, and plumes of bright coloured smoke poured from its chimney.

“There’s still some stuff missing,” George fussed. “We’ve got a small healing range to go with our defense corner, and most of those potions don’t sit for long. And the pygmy puffs, of course.”

“Pygmy puffs?” Sirius asked keenly.

“Miniature puffskeins, we figured out how to breed them in a whole bunch of colours.”

“I’ll take five,” the animagus declared instantly. Remus rolled his eyes.

“Two, _maybe_ ,” he haggled. “Depends how they take to werewolves.” Harry knew there were some animals, especially prey animals, that could sense the creature within Remus and were nervous about it.

“You three are of course welcome to anything in the shop, free of charge,” Fred declared. “We wouldn’t be where we are today without any of you. So go on, help yourselves.”

That seemed to be all it took for Sirius — his joy in investigating the shop had combined with his delight in being somewhere that was not Grimmauld Place, and he shot off like a rocket to go investigate. Remus sighed in fond exasperation, heading off after him — though he paused, examined a Decoy Detonator from a large display of them, and tucked it in his pocket before trailing after his exuberant mate.

Harry, already familiar with the product range, sidled up to George and pulled him down into a long kiss. “This place looks amazing,” he announced. “You’re going to be a hit. God, I’m so proud of you both.”

“You don’t have to kiss me to prove that, I promise,” Fred volunteered from his twin’s side. He was beaming so wide it looked like it hurt, gaze following Sirius’ adventure through the shop.

“You really like it?” George asked, hands settling on Harry’s waist.

“Really. This is ridiculous, I can’t believe how great it looks all together like this!” It was the perfect level of eye-popping madness without being so overwhelming you couldn’t stand to look at it. Harry was sure the Hogwarts students would love it — and so would plenty others no longer of Hogwarts age.

“We’ve got a section over there for stuff a bit more serious,” George added, gesturing to the back corner. “Shield hats and cloaks, Instant Darkness Powder, Wailing Wallets.”

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with the wizard who made our family clock,” Fred told him. “See if he wants to collaborate on some similar stuff — Watches that tell you if your loved ones are in danger, and the like. He’s fairly old now, though, so we don’t know how much he can handle. Depends on if he took an apprentice.”

Harry still couldn’t believe the kind of magic they’d worked on their products, making such extraordinary things available to the average witch and wizard. Not only did they sell stuff to make people laugh, but they were going to keep so many people safe with their wares.

“Look, over here.” George grabbed his hand, dragging him over to the little alcove beneath the stairs. “We’ve even got a selection of muggle stuff — things they think are magic tricks. Dad always thought they were hilarious, and we figured they might be a bit of a novelty for wizards.”

Harry could see several things he recognised from his own childhood — disappearing cup-and-ball sets, trick playing cards, impossible rope puzzles. There was a section of prank toys, too; many of which had signs indicating a magical Weasley version was also available elsewhere.

“You two are absolute geniuses.” The whole place looked just like he would have imagined a magic shop to look when he was a child, before he knew about it all.

It looked like the kind of place that would give his uncle a heart attack just to look inside.

George took his hand to give him the full tour, showing him past the Back-To-School section — with a variety of charmed quills and prank parchments, including some that would erase anything written on it after twelve hours that he was _so_ tempted to try and get Hermione with, just to watch the meltdown — through the WonderWitch area and upstairs to the full display of food-based pranks. The Skiving Snackboxes took pride of place, but there were also Canary Creams and Ton-Tongue Toffees and open shelves for a bunch of other fun treats the twins were working on.

Then there was the fireworks section, which also held the Portable Swamps. Followed by the Harmless Fun display, full of things that weren’t prank items but just entertaining little toys and trinkets the twins had invented. Even for Harry, who had spent hours sorting stock for the twins, it was overwhelming seeing how many things they had come up with.

When they finally caught up with Sirius, the Marauder had a basket over his arm that was full to the brim. “I’m paying for all of this and you’re not going to stop me,” he declared by way of greeting, tossing a bottle of Jungle Juice — _‘Bring out the animal in you!’_ — into the basket.

“Challenge accepted,” George retorted without missing a beat. “Your gold’s no good here, Padfoot. Nor is yours,” he added to Remus, who had a basket over his arm that wasn’t quite as full as Sirius’. Harry wondered how much of that was just overflow from Sirius.

“You sure I can’t make a convincing argument for my gold?” Harry offered for the hundredth time. George winked at him.

“You can pay me in other ways if you really insist on it.”

“Ew, gross, we’re still here thanks,” Sirius reminded, as if he and Remus hadn’t said and done worse in front of Harry. “But seriously, this place is the best thing I’ve ever seen. Prongs and I would have _dreamed_ of having something like this when we were kids. You two are really going for it, y’know? You’ll knock old Zonko right off his high horse.”

George’s face slackened like he had never heard a greater compliment in his life. “I— really?”

“This is really brilliant spellwork,” Remus agreed. “All of it. Creativity of your pranks aside — which, really, is better than we could ever come up with — the level of skill that goes into all these; charms, transfigurations, potions, even just the cooking knowledge for some of these! I don’t know why your mother seems to think you haven’t been applying yourselves in school; some of these are mastery-level quality.”

There was a thud behind them — Harry turned to see Fred having stumbled on his way up the stairs, clearly having heard Remus’ comments. Neither twin seemed to know how to respond. Harry leaned up to kiss George’s cheek.

“Told you they’d love it,” he whispered, grinning.

Remus launched into a series of questions over the specifics of some of their spellwork, and soon the three were embroiled in a rapid-fire conversation on topics that Harry could barely keep up with. He wandered off towards the Family Friendly section, smiling in amusement at some of the cuddly looking stuffed toys that were charmed to entertain young children. A large hand clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing gently.

“That young man of yours is really quite something,” Sirius murmured in his ear. Harry’s grin widened.

“Isn’t he?” He let his gaze draw back to George, heart stuttering at the way the redhead’s face lit up as he explained something with exuberant hand gestures. “I knew this would all work out for them. They just needed someone to have some faith.” Especially since that faith had come in the form of a thousand galleons, but he was confident they’d have made it here eventually regardless. In the scheme of how much they were making already — something he, as a silent partner, was kept well informed of — they had blown past that milestone a long time ago. From just his share alone, they’d already paid him back several times over, even with the money it took to buy the shop.

“Brains, looks, mischief; you’ve really caught yourself a winner, there.” Sirius smiled at him, ruffling his hair. “And it’s obvious he thinks the absolute world of you.”

Harry knew he was blushing, but he couldn’t stop smiling anyway. “I can hardly believe my luck, when I look at him,” he admitted. He turned to his godfather, sheepish. “He’s trying _so hard_ to impress you both tonight.” Harry could hardly imagine how George was feeling, showing off the culmination of his dreams to two people who had inspired half of those dreams unknowingly — two people who also happened to be the closest thing to parental figures his boyfriend had.

“Oh, we know.” Sirius smirked faintly. “You can tell him it’s not necessary, though. We’ve already decided we’ll let you keep him.”

Harry’s pulse skipped a beat. “I’d have ignored you even if you’d said you hated him, you know.”

“We know,” Sirius repeated. “But our opinion is clearly important to him.” He winked mischievously. “He doesn’t know I’d trade you for all this stuff without thinking twice.” He gestured to his over-full shopping basket.

“Oi!” Harry argued halfheartedly, laughing. Sirius slid an arm around his waist, and Harry leaned into it.

“It’s a bit terrifying, watching your godson grow up, without his parents there,” the animagus said conversationally. “Especially when you’ve barely seen him since he was a toddler. And when he’s wanted by a Dark Lord.” Harry snorted. “But you’re a good lad, with a solid head on your shoulders — and a young man who’d do absolutely anything to keep you happy.” Sirius’ eyes glistened slightly. “I reckon that’s all James and Lily could’ve ever wanted for you.”

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Do you— do you think they would approve?” Sirius had said before that James would have loved the twins, but that was as pranksters — not necessarily as their son’s boyfriend.

“Oh, pup,” Sirius breathed, pressing his lips to Harry’s hair. “They’d _adore_ him. Jamie would’ve demanded you marry the bloke by now.”

A weight lifted from Harry’s shoulders; one he hadn’t even known he was carrying. And, almost unbidden, thoughts rose in his mind of what a future with George might look like. Like he was finally allowing himself, now he had parental approval.

“I— I think I want to,” he admitted hoarsely. “Marry him, y’know. I know we’re still young, but… I think he’s the one.”

“I saw that exact same look in your dad’s eye after he went on his first date with Lily,” Sirius told him. “I’m with you all the way, kid. Whatever happens — whatever this war brings — I want you to know that. Remus and I love you, and we love your boyfriend, and we’re so bloody proud of you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Harry retorted reflexively, leaning heavier against Sirius. Just like with George, Harry refused to imagine a world in which his godfathers didn’t make it through in one piece. “But I love you both too.”

They stood there for a while, watching their respective partners with love-filled gazes, lost in their thoughts of what may come.

As long as it involved the four other men in the shop with him right then, Harry would be happy.


	29. Chapter 29

Harry might have been out of school for the entire academic year, but that didn’t stop him waking up in a cold sweat on the first morning of Hogwarts exam week.

It took him a moment to realise it, of course. Instinctively, his thoughts had gone to Voldemort, wondering if the man was up to something nefarious. But then he glanced at the calendar, and remembered.

Ron and Hermione would be taking their first OWL exams that morning. In another life, Harry would have been right there with them.

In some ways he was glad for the way he’d done it — sure, it had been exhausting to get them all done in a four-day period, but it had been private and quiet and far less build-up with only a handful of people knowing he’d even done it. Also, if he’d stayed at Hogwarts, he would have been stuck taking Divination and never discovered his interest in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.

As he got ready for the day, he wondered absently how his friends were faring. Had Hermione put herself in the hospital wing with her study anxiety? Perhaps the distraction of Umbridge had stopped her from revising 24/7… or it had just made her determination to do well a thousand times worse.

He remembered back in the summer, when he’d suggested she might have a calm and easy OWL year without him there. He snorted to himself — such things didn’t exist in Hogwarts, apparently.

With little else to do with his day, he bid goodbye to his godfathers and flooed over to the twins’ flat. The living room was empty, but he could hear vague explosion noises coming from up in the attic. Grin tugging at his lips, he made a beeline for the spiral staircase.

The attic space in the building had become the twins’ workshop — plenty of space, and plenty of ventilation for any accidentally toxic potion fumes. It fascinated Harry every time he was in there, whatever the boys were working on.

To his surprise, Fred was up there alone, stood over a large cauldron that was occasionally emitting tiny explosions. Harry knocked on the doorframe, not wanting to disturb the redhead. “Hi, Fred. Am I okay to come in?”

“Morning, mate. Stay behind the line and you should be fine,” Fred directed. The line was just a painted circle on the floor around the experimentation zone, denoting the active ward line in case of emergency. Harry kept on his side of it, moving over to the chair in the corner that had become ‘his’. “George is over at Mum’s; he’s, ah, attempting to gather some gnome hair for a thing.”

Harry winced. “Oh, boy. Bet that’s going well.” Fred grinned in response. “What are you brewing?”

“Not sure yet. I was aiming for something that would make stuff turn to rubber when the potion is poured on it. Don’t think it’s going that way, though.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose; that certainly sounded intriguing. “Anything I can help with?”

“You can load the animation charms on that box of Decoy Detonators, if you want,” Fred replied, gesturing with the hand not stirring the potion towards a box on George’s desk. Harry grinned, jumping to his feet. He’d worked on those before, he knew the spell set no problem.

“Sirius got Kingsley with the Jungle Juice last night by the way,” Harry piped up, watching Fred grin.

“No way! What happened?”

Laughingly, Harry relayed the events of the night before; Sirius asking Kingsley for a friendly nightcap only to end up in absolute stitches as the man sprouted dark fur and could only roar like a wildcat for twenty minutes. Three drops of the juice in someone’s drink would induce random animal traits — it was Sirius’ new favourite thing. So far he’d pranked Kingsley, Tonks, Arthur, Remus — multiple times — and even Harry once. Every incident had been different. Harry had quite enjoyed his brief time as a part-rhino, even if the horn had broken his glasses.

“Brilliant,” Fred enthused. Every time Harry told either him or George about the Marauders enjoying their products, they lit up like they’d just won the lottery. Harry wondered how long it would take for them to realise their idols actually now idolised _them_ in return.

The pair worked and chatted companionably — interrupted occasionally by the odd noises coming from Fred’s cauldron — until they heard the telltale whoosh of the floo downstairs. “That’ll be George,” Fred said unnecessarily. “I can finish those up later.”

“Don’t be daft; I’ve started them now,” Harry insisted, reaching for another Detonator. He stuck his tongue out at Fred. “I’m not _just_ here to see George all the time, y’know. I can live for a few hours without seeing him.” Harry had been aware since he’d started fancying George that Fred would always be part of the package, and he enjoyed the company of _both_ twins. In different ways, obviously, but Fred was just as much an important part of his life as George was, by now.

“Oh, I know,” Fred replied casually. “I was thinking more you might want to catch him before he can hop in the shower, heal his bruises and pretend his whole adventure was easy. He’s been chasing gnomes for _hours_ , I bet he’s a disaster.”

Harry snickered — Fred raised a good point there. “I’ll be back up in a bit, then.”

“If you join him in the shower, don’t forget to silence the ceiling!”

Harry’s cheeks were burning as he’d left. “That was _one time_.” How was he supposed to know how well sound carried from the bathroom up to the workshop?

Hurrying down the staircase, he slipped into George’s room, stifling a laugh at the sight of his boyfriend. He was indeed a disaster — hair in absolute disarray, one spot rather thin where it seemed a gnome had tried to retaliate on the hair-gathering. His jeans were splattered in mud, his bare arms scraped and bruised and filthy. “Did you get everything you needed, at least?”

George jumped, whirling around and grinning sheepishly at Harry’s expression. “More than, thankfully. Little buggers really made me work for it, though.”

“I can tell.”

“How long have you been here? I didn’t think you’d be over ’til later.” George stripped off his dirt-streaked t-shirt, and it took Harry a second to realise he’d been asked a question.

“Oh, yeah— I got here about an hour and a half ago, maybe two? Tonks got called into work, had to cancel. I’ve been keeping Fred company while he brews, and charming some of the Detonators.” His ogling was shameless as George stepped out of his jeans, and the redhead wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

“Glad to hear my brother put you to work.” He stepped closer, dropping a kiss on Harry’s lips. “As tempting as you are, I have gnome bites in _so many places_ , and it’s kinda killing my libido right now,” he admitted ruefully. Harry snorted.

“Need a hand healing them?”

“Nah, they’re all reachable, thanks. I’ll maintain my pride and not let you see just how many of those tiny blighters got me.”

Snickering, Harry rocked up on his toes for one more kiss. “I’ll be upstairs when you’re done, then.” He ran a gentle finger over George’s new bald spot. “You might want a bit of hair regrowth potion, too.”

George’s face fell in dismay. “Is it bad?”

“It looks fixable,” Harry assured. He winked, then patted George gently on the bum. “Go on, go shower and pull yourself together.”

Laughing, George saluted and hurried across to the bathroom. Harry returned to the workshop, and Fred looked surprised to see him back so soon. Harry rolled his eyes. “We’re not as horny as you seem to think we are,” he insisted feebly. Fred just fixed him with a pointed look. “Okay, he got bitten by too many gnomes and needs to tend his wounds in privacy,” Harry confessed, determinedly ignoring the redhead’s cackling laughter as he returned to his Decoy Detonators.

.-.-.

Once George was clean and healed, he joined his brother and boyfriend up in the workshop. Harry didn’t notice him for the first five minutes — he and Fred were too busy working on stretching out the seemingly never-ending slime-like substance the contents of his cauldron had become.

“You’ll have to figure out if this stuff is harmful to consume,” Harry said, arms stretched as far apart as they would go, holding a window-pane-sized piece of the blue-green goop. It was still all in one piece, trailing across the floor to where Fred held the other end. “It just keeps growing! Imagine giving someone a piece of it and telling them it’s chewing gum.”

“You’re onto something there,” Fred agreed excitedly. He sniffed at the piece in his hand experimentally.

“Please don’t eat it,” Harry begged. “I don’t want to tell George I killed his twin brother while he was in the shower.”

“That’s why there’s two of us,” George cut in amusedly, startling the pair. “A backup for when one of us is inevitably done in by our own stupidity.” He stepped carefully into the room, eyeing the situation. “Do I want to know what you were aiming to achieve?”

Fred launched into an explanation, and Harry let his eyes roam over George’s form. Now dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a Puddlemere United t-shirt, he was looking a whole lot better, with just a couple of red patches on his arms from the more vicious gnome bites. His hair was back to normal, too, which Harry was incredibly glad about. He loved George’s hair.

He realised how distracted he’d become when George ducked down to kiss him on the nose, grinning. “Am I handsome again?” he asked, running a hand through his fiery locks with a smirk. Harry matched his expression.

“You’re alright, I guess.”

“If anything’s going to kill me up here, it’s your flirting,” Fred declared from across the room. “Please, Merlin, help me clean up this mess so I can kick you both out.”

Between the three of them, they managed to wrestle the goop back into the cauldron, where Fred slammed a lid on it and spelled it shut. “I’ll test it later, see what we can make with that little disaster child of my brain.”

“How many of your products have come from accidents?” Harry asked bemusedly. The twins grinned.

“There are no accidents, only genius we didn’t plan!” they chorused in unison.

“Now go make eyes at each other somewhere else,” Fred ordered, gesturing to the door.

“Fine, fine,” Harry mock-grumbled. “We’ll make lunch, come join us when you’ve finished up.”

George’s hand slipped into his on the way downstairs, and once they were in the kitchen he pulled Harry into a deep kiss. Harry groaned, melting into the embrace.

“You’re in a good mood,” he commented once they parted. “What was that for?”

George grinned at him, keeping him close. “I love that you and Fred get on so well,” he admitted quietly. “I mean, my whole family, but…” He trailed off, and Harry thought he got the idea. George couldn’t date anyone who didn’t accept Fred with open arms as well.

“Fred was my brother long before we got together,” Harry pointed out. “Ever since you pulled the bars off my window and flew me away in the night.” Somehow, from his pre-teen hormone-addled brain, George had become the knight in shining armour while Fred had remained firmly in the ‘brother I wish I’d always had’ section with Ron. Even then, he’d recognised the difference in the twins, and been drawn to one over the other.

George’s face darkened briefly at the reminder of the Dursleys, but it didn’t stay long. “I’m just happy I don’t have to worry about choosing between you. Or about you deciding you fancy him much better instead.”

Harry made a face to show exactly how he felt about both of those things. “First off, Fred’s straight,” he pointed out. “Second, gross — you’re my favourite Weasley and you know it.” George’s grin widened. “As for making you choose, don’t be ridiculous. He’s your twin brother; he was here long before I ever was. There’s plenty of room in your heart for both of us.” He patted George’s chest pointedly. “Besides, you’d never make me pick between you and Ron.” He was reminded of what Fleur had said, back in France, about them becoming family soon — in her mind, Harry had been a Weasley long before anything had happened between him and George, and would continue to be one even if their relationship didn’t work out. He didn’t like to ever think of that outcome, but he knew that if the worst _did_ happen, he wouldn’t lose his redheaded adoptive family, any more than he could ever lose Sirius and Remus.

He turned away to start rooting through the cold box, entirely unaware of the besotted look that crossed George’s face. “Speaking of Ron, I wonder how he’s doing,” he mused, speculatively eyeing a vine of tomatoes for the juiciest-looking ones. “He’ll have had his first exam by now.”

He noticed George’s shoulders tense when he turned. “Oh, yeah; it’s that time already, isn’t it?” the redhead realised, blinking. “Blimey. I hope Lee’s doing alright — he always used to get really wound up the night before first exams, even when he said he didn’t care about them. Fred and I had to practically drug him asleep before our OWLs.”

Harry frowned sadly — he forgot sometimes that the twins had friends they’d left behind, too. It might have only been a month since they left Hogwarts, but a month without contact was difficult for anyone. “Katie will look after him, I’m sure.” With only the regular end-of-year exams to contend with, Katie Bell was no doubt working overtime to make sure her older teammates were taking care of themselves through their exams. She had done it during the twins’ OWL year, always making sure Alicia and Angelina didn’t push themselves too hard. Lee might not _technically_ be on the team, but he was as good as after his years of commentating — and often Katie had mothered him when she’d given up on trying to make the twins care about their upcoming exams.

“Yeah,” George agreed quietly.

As Harry began to fry bacon for BLTs, he watched George, seeing the shadow in those brown eyes. He cursed himself for bringing up exams and Hogwarts to begin with. “You’ll see them in a few weeks,” he assured; there was now officially less than a month until the school year ended. “You can show them everything you two have been working so hard on. They’ll love it.” He grinned. “You can show Lee the _anonymous donation_ you received.” The donation had been Sirius’ way of paying for everything he and Remus had bought. The twins clearly knew it was him, but it had been done in a way that they couldn’t argue with, not without irritating the goblins.

“I bet Lee can’t wait to get his hands back on our books,” George remarked, snorting. Lee, with his accountant mother, was the financial realism to balance out the twins’ boundless creativity. Sure, the twins were great with money — growing up with so little had taught them that — but things like balancing accounts and filing taxes and pricing stock had always been left to Lee.

Still, the shadow didn’t quite shift from those coffee-brown eyes, and once the sandwiches were done Harry bumped George’s hip gently with his own. “Do you regret it?” he asked softly. “Not staying ’til the end?”

George was silent for several moments, staring into the open cupboard in front of him. “I think part of me will always regret that we didn’t get one last train ride home, like proper graduates,” he admitted. Harry slid an arm around his waist, squeezing him gently. He knew that thought all-too well. “I regret that we couldn’t stick it out with our friends, keep them safe a bit longer. But I don’t regret not being there for exams, and I don’t think Freddie does either. We can always take them later in life — hell, if Fudge’s still there to kick up a fuss, we can do what you did and go to France for them. But we’re doing what we love now, regardless of grades, and… I think we might actually do pretty well at it.”

Harry beamed — that was the first time he’d ever heard George say anything positive about the shop’s future, or his own skills. Usually he would just wave Harry off with a ‘we’ll wait and see’ or ‘you’re my boyfriend, you have to say you like it’.

“Besides,” George added, turning to face Harry. The shadow had faded, replaced with the sparkle of mischief Harry so adored. “If I’d stayed at school, I still wouldn’t have kissed you by now, and that is truly heartbreaking to consider.” He smirked, lifting Harry to sit on the countertop, the height difference disappearing between them.

“Oh, good,” Harry murmured. “Now I don’t feel like such a selfish dick for being so glad you’ve been here all month.”

George barked out a laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “I wouldn’t change any of this for the world,” he declared, cupping Harry’s face with one hand. “I can’t believe we managed to keep our hands off each other for so long.”

“It all worked out in the end,” Harry replied with a smile. All their pining and heartache had been worth it eventually. “It’s been kind-of brilliant, to be honest, having this time with you without everyone else sticking their noses in. Umbridge might be a demonic bitch, but she’s given me a perfect excuse for not telling Ron and Hermione yet.” If he’d been able to write to his friends, there was no way he could have kept it from them — not without risking an explosion when they learned he’d been actively keeping it secret for months. Now, he could have his two months with George without any prying friends or siblings, and have the entirely legitimate excuse of letters being too dangerous to send.

“I wonder who’s gonna be more shocked; Ron or Mum,” George remarked, snickering.

“My money’s on Ron,” Harry replied, trying to imagine the look on his friend’s face when he discovered the truth. “At least your mum knows I’m bent; pretty sure Ron hasn’t figured that one out yet.”

“He’s _that_ blind?” George asked, eyebrows raised incredulously. Harry snorted.

“‘Fraid so.” Harry hadn’t ever had to _come out_ to anyone, so to speak; either it came up in conversation, or they assumed from his fairly obvious ogling and complimenting of various men. Subtext had served him fine so far — but subtext was a language Ron did not speak.

“Blimey. Almost makes me want to keep it secret through the summer, just to see how long it takes him to figure it out.”

“We can, if you want,” Harry offered. “There’s no rush on my end.” He wasn’t going to push George to go public any sooner than he wanted to — the more people who knew, even if those people were their friends and family, the higher the chance of someone slipping up at the Prophet getting wind of it. They might pretend they no longer cared about the _Boy-Who-Lived_ , but they still referenced Harry in their articles semi-regularly. They would jump on the chance to write something about his personal life.

“Don’t be daft.” George slotted himself between Harry’s knees, arms twined around his neck. “If you think I’m going to have _any_ kind of restraint in showing how absolutely mad I am about you in front of my entire family once they’re all home and the shop’s open, you’ve got another thing coming.” He grinned, kissing Harry quickly. “We are going to be _so sickening_ Ron won’t stand to be in the same room as us.” His eyes softened, expression becoming earnest. “I love you, you nutter. I’m planning to make that very, _very_ obvious.” Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. George winked. “Gotta make sure my claim is in place when you’re the darling of the wizarding world again, make sure no one can steal you away from me.”

Entirely lost for words, Harry forgot to breathe. _I love you_. George had never said those words before. They had been implied, Merlin, a thousand times over. But it was _so much more_ to actually hear them from his boyfriend’s mouth.

“I love you, too,” he blurted once he found his voice. He beamed, gripping George’s shoulders. “Fuck, George, I love you _so much_ — there is no chance of anyone stealing me away, even if the entire sodding wizarding world tries.” He met George’s lips eagerly, trying to push all his emotion into the kiss, chest feeling ready to burst. When they finally broke for air, they were grinning at each other. “You’re not the one who has to worry,” Harry remarked, “I’m still the delinquent maniac who got expelled. Give it six months, you’ll be one of the hottest young entrepreneurs in Magical Britain — I’ll be fighting the blokes off every time you leave the flat!”

“You mean that’s not what Mad-Eye’s been training you for all these months?” George asked, feigning a wide-eyed look of concern.

Harry smirked; it wasn’t, but he was not above using that training to make sure people backed away from his boyfriend. “Only some of it,” he teased.

George smirked back, then ran a gentle hand through Harry’s hair. “Looks like you’re sorted, then,” he joked. “Maybe I should have Tonks show me a thing or two. I know you, Potter,” he added before Harry could interrupt. “You might be saying you’ll wait until the time is right, but I know damn well you’ll be out there the next time Voldemort shows his ugly face, ready to take him down. And you’ll do it, too — you’re too relaxed to still be worried about how to beat him.” His eyes shone confidently. “You know how to kill him, and you’re ready, and I’d bet the whole damn shop he’ll end up dead for good the next time he picks a fight with you.” Kiss-swollen lips quirked wryly. “And I’m _not_ just saying that to get into your pants later. Though I wouldn’t say no,” he added with a wink.

Harry vehemently wished that Fred wasn’t bound to appear at any second — he couldn’t give less of a shit about lunch right then, not with George looking at him like that; like he didn’t have a single doubt about Harry’s ability to win them the war, and soon.

His confidence almost made Harry believe it, too.


	30. Chapter 30

As the week drew on, Harry grew more and more anxious. He wasn’t sure why — misplaced exam-based anxiety for his friends, perhaps? But that seemed ridiculous. It also wouldn’t explain why his dreams were curiously blank, and he woke up each morning with the anxiety tripled and a lead weight sitting in his gut.

George theorised it was because the end of the academic year was nearing, and usually Harry would have had some sort of dangerous adventure by now. “You’re bored, is all,” he soothed, rubbing Harry’s shoulders one night, the pair of them on the sofa at the flat while Fred was out with some girl he’d met in Fortescue’s. “For the first time you’re actually _prepared_ for all hell to break loose, and it hasn’t happened yet. It’ll pass once school’s over.”

There was solid logic to his reasoning, but it still didn’t sit right to Harry. He was restless, spending most nights back at Grimmauld because he couldn’t sleep and he didn’t want to keep George up with his tossing and turning.

He told the Order about his suspicions, but when he couldn’t provide more than just a gut feeling they told him he was probably just overreacting. Those who knew him well — the three aurors, Sirius and Remus, and the Weasleys — promised to be vigilant, but there was little they could do with no idea where any potential threat might be coming from. Harry just hoped his vague sort-of warning would be enough, if the worst happened.

The few dreams he did remember all held Cedric Diggory’s glassy-eyed face, his body limp on the grass, a cold voice hissing _‘Kill the spare_ ’. Those were the nights he wished he’d stayed at the flat, that George was there to hold him until he stopped shaking from the memory.

He couldn’t go through an event like that again.

But Voldemort gave away nothing through Harry’s scar, and though Harry read the Prophet cover-to-cover each morning there were no signs there, either. It was quiet. Worryingly so, in fact.

Remus, ever the level-headed member of the family, pointed out to Harry one evening that while he felt like he’d faced Voldemort every year around this time, only his first and fourth years had actually been true battles with the Dark Lord.

“Your second year was just one of his horcruxes, and as for your third — that was sort of our fault,” he added sheepishly, gesturing to himself and Sirius.

“You didn’t mean to forget your potion,” Harry said immediately.

“Maybe not, but I _definitely_ meant to drag poor Ron to the Shack by his leg just to get at Wormtail,” Sirius replied brightly. His smile faltered. “Y’know, I don’t think I ever _actually_ apologised to Ron for that. Remind me to do that, once he’s home.”

“Our point is,” Remus continued, shooting his lover a look of fond exasperation, “not every June has to bring about a battle for your life. You haven’t spent all year snooping around and picking up shoddily-dropped clues from Albus; why should you finish the year with another grand confrontation?” Ever since Harry had told his godfathers exactly what had happened through his school years, they seemed to agree with him that Dumbledore had orchestrated far too much of it.

Everyone around Harry was trying to convince him he was jumping at shadows, and Harry tried his best to listen to them. But he felt like someone was scratching nails down a chalkboard just out of his field of vision, constantly — a sharp, grating sensation prickling the back of his neck whenever he tried to relax. It was infuriating.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

.-.-.-.

_He was in the corridor again. He hadn’t been there in a while. If he’d had eyes to roll in this dream, he would have rolled them — was Voldemort still trying to get him with this prophecy bullshit? He was walking faster than usual at least. The black door swung wide open for him as it always did, leading into the circular room with all the doors. He went through the same second door, and then the third, a sense of urgency flooding his veins. Whatever was here, he_ needed _to get to it._

_He was in the Hall of Prophecy. His dreams hadn’t taken him this far in a while. Usually he woke up before that happened. He half-ran past the rows and rows of tall shelves, turning the corner at aisle ninety-seven — turning down the aisle, not looking at any of the shining orbs._

_There was a shadow. A dark shape at the end of the row — no, two. Two black-cloaked shapes slumped on the floor. Unease began to claw at his belly. Harry saw his own hand rise, wand ready, the spell gathering before the words even touched his lips. “Crucio.”_

_One of the shapes screamed and writhed. Harry’s heart tripped — he knew that scream._

_“Lord Voldemort is waiting,” he drawled, high and cold._

_The tortured figure slumped into a shuddering puddle of fabric, and beside them, the other shape rose, coming further into the light, revealing bushy hair and determined dark brown eyes. “You’ll have to kill us if you want to get to Harry,” Hermione declared fiercely, only a hint of fear in her voice. Her school uniform was rumpled and bloodied beneath her cloak. “We won’t tell you where he is!”_

_Beside her, Ron made a hoarse noise of agreement, dragging himself into a sitting position. His red hair stood out bright against his chalky skin. So did the blood dripping from his lip, where he’d bit into it while trying not to scream._

_“Oh, I shall indeed,” Harry replied in cruel amusement. “Quite happily. But first, you will be useful. We have hours ahead of us, yet — plenty of time to hear you both scream.”_

_Harry raised his wand again, and he was laughing, but he was screaming. He was screaming, his heart hammering against his ribs, and then his hip blossomed with pain—_

.-.

Harry woke still screaming, sprawled on the hardwood floor of the library, having rolled off the sofa he’d been napping on. His hip was sore but his head was worse, his scar red-hot and throbbing. He clenched his teeth against the urge to vomit.

He lay there for several long moments, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down, for the adrenaline pouring through his system to fade. At the moment, all he wanted to do was run to the Ministry and rescue his friends, fuck whoever got in his way. But he couldn’t — he was better than that, now. He knew better. He had more skills, and the back-up of the Order.

And, the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Ron and Hermione had exams to sit; someone would have noticed they were missing by now, if it were true.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry laughed, his throat still raspy. Did Voldemort truly think him so reckless as to dive headfirst into danger without even _questioning_ how the man would get two Hogwarts students out of the castle in the middle of the day during exam week?

A voice in the back of his mind was still begging him to go for them, to save them before it was too late. Hermione’s terrified face burned itself into his eyelids, Ron’s screams echoing in his ears. He shook them away stubbornly. It was all fake.

Voldemort had been sending him fake visions all year, in those journeys down the corridor. He was just getting more elaborate now. More daring.

Harry knew he had been anxious for a reason.

He dragged himself back up onto the sofa, taking a steadying breath to think through his next steps.

Voldemort didn’t know what Harry had been up to all year. He was expecting the same impulsive, foolhardy Gryffindor Harry he’d faced each time prior, the one who didn’t trust adults and believed he had no one and would throw himself in front of a curse without thinking twice, if it was to save someone he loved. The Harry who would absolutely sneak into the Ministry to go and save his friends, no questions asked.

He would be expecting Harry to go to the Department of Mysteries.

What kind of ambush did he have planned?

His pulse raced for an entirely different reason, now. Before he could think things through any further, he raised a hand. “Expecto Patronum.” At once, Prongs sprung forth, bowing his enormous antlered head to Harry. “Go to Bill Weasley. Tell him: It is coming. Prepare the ritual. I will be there soon.”

Prongs snorted noiselessly, then bound across the library and disappeared in a cascade of silver light. That was one thing sorted.

He rose to his feet, ignoring the faint tremor of his hands. Now to prepare the others.

Sirius and Remus were in the living room, and their faces immediately morphed into expressions of concern when they saw Harry. “What’s wrong?” Sirius asked.

“I had a vision. It’s a fake,” he added before they could become too alarmed. “But it was a convincing one. Voldemort wants me to believe he’s got Ron and Hermione, down in the Hall of Prophecy. That he’s torturing them.” The bastard likely knew that no mail was getting in or out of Hogwarts without being checked, that Harry had no way of confirming his friends were safe.

Both men paled. “Are— are you sure?” Remus asked hesitantly. Harry gave a sharp nod.

“Unless he’s already there himself, which would be impossible. Also, someone would notice Ron and Hermione not showing up to exams.” Hermione Granger missing an OWL would practically make the Prophet in its absurdity. “Harry Potter’s best friends missing?” His lips curved bitterly. “We would’ve heard something, even with Hogwarts the way it is.”

“So why do you look like you’re headed to war?” Sirius had a look of trepidation in his grey eyes. Harry smirked.

“Voldemort wants me to come to the Ministry to save my friends. I’m going to do exactly what he wants. But,” he added when they both made to protest, “I’m going to bring a few friends of my own. And I’ve got a trick up my sleeve he doesn’t know about.”

“I— the horcruxes?” Remus breathed, wide eyed. All Harry did was keep smirking. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to — his godfathers read the implication, and he saw both their shoulders slump in relief. “Are you sure?”

“About as sure as we can be.” They were attempting a ritual they’d pieced together from ancient writings, that had never worked as intended to begin with, and may not agree with the amount of Voldemort’s soul within Harry’s body. But all the tests pointed towards success, and that was a good enough chance for him.

“What do you need from us?” Sirius asked, and at that moment Harry could easily see the auror in his godfather, eyes sharp despite twelve years of grief and isolation, wand ready. Remus, too, turned into a warrior in front of him; eyes flashing gold, lips pulled in the slightest hint of a snarl, limbs poised like a predator. Moony was going to play, today.

“Gather the Order. Everyone you can,” Harry instructed. “I’ll need time to— to do what I need to do. Get everybody together, tell them what’s happening, and have them come to the Ministry in say… two hours.” Voldemort was expecting Harry to come alone, and presumably thought he was as helpless as a muggle. There was no need to get there immediately.

“Straight to the Department of Mysteries?” Remus checked, a touch of a growl in his voice already. Harry nodded.

“If you can. I don’t know how many Death Eaters will be there, but I can take a guess.” If Voldemort was planning to have Harry reveal the prophecy, he would want as many of his loyal followers as possible there to hear it. And then to watch him kill the boy destined to defeat him. “If possible, get a message to Madam Pomfrey, too. We might need her.” Harry desperately hoped they wouldn’t, but he didn’t want to leave that to chance.

“Harry,” Sirius said, stepping up to place a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll send you a patronus once we’re ready to go. _Promise me_ you won’t go to the Ministry before you have that signal. We can’t afford for you to be ambushed alone; you’ve come a long way, but you still can’t face all his elite by yourself.”

Harry bit his tongue before he could point out that Voldemort wouldn’t do anything permanent until he had the prophecy, and Harry could easily stall him until then.

“It’s too dangerous for a patronus,” he said instead. “I need to go to Bill and Fleur. Once we’re done, I’ll send them here, to join you all. Once they’ve arrived, you’ll know I’m headed to the Ministry. That’ll have to be enough.” It was the only heads-up he could risk giving, just in case.

Sirius clearly didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue. He pulled Harry close, kissing him on the forehead. “We love you. Be safe, and fight well.”

When Sirius stepped back, Remus took his place; he, too, kissed Harry’s forehead, then rubbed his nose along Harry’s cheek with a quiet growl. “We’ll be right behind you. We love you,” he echoed.

“I love you both. I’ll see you soon.” Harry took one last look at them, stomach squirming, and strode from the living room.

The clock was ticking, but before Harry left the house he had one more thing to do.

“George Weasley.”

The familiar grinning face appeared in the surface of the mirror. “Hey, you!” George greeted warmly — and then faltered at the look on Harry’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s time,” Harry declared, watching the blood drain from George’s face. “I had a vision of— whatever, it’s not important. Sirius and Remus are gathering the Order, you two should get over here.”

“Where will you be?” George questioned immediately. Harry bit back a grimace.

“I have to go do something at Gringotts,” he replied evasively. “I’ll meet you there. I just… I needed to call, before I go.”

“Don’t you dare do anything stupid, Potter,” George warned, brown eyes grave. “You promised, remember?”

“Nothing stupid,” Harry agreed. His heart ached; he wished he had the time to go over to the flat, or at least wait for the twins to come over to Grimmauld. To kiss George one last time. But he had to get to work — and he worried that if he could hold George again before the battle, he might not be able to let go. “Be careful, okay? You and Fred both. Watch each other’s backs.”

“Have been since day one,” George replied with a wink, attempting a smile. His face softened into an expression that had become very familiar to Harry in the last few weeks. “I love you, Harry. And I believe in you. Go kick that Dark Lord’s arse, yeah? I’ll see you when it’s all over.”

Chest tightening, Harry smiled back. “I love you, too.” He looked at George for a long moment, wondering what else he should say, a million different things battling for space in his mind. What could he say, when it might be the last thing he said to George, ever?

He grit his teeth. He couldn’t think like that. George believed in him — both of them would make it out okay. He would have the rest of his life to say all those things in his head.

“I have to go,” he sighed; Bill would be expecting him by now.

“We’ll gather the defensive stock and head on over,” George said. That made Harry’s heart lighten a little; with the breadth of protective and battle-related products the twins had come up with this year, it would give the Order one hell of an advantage. “See you soon, gorgeous.”

Harry simply raised his fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them, pressing it to the mirror. Then he let the connection fade, pocketed the mirror, and straightened up. He had work to do.

.-.-.

Luckily, Bill had keyed him in to the Gringotts staff floo for this very situation. He appeared in the familiar offices, and was pleased to see Jenna waiting for him. Her face was drawn, and she startled when he burst through the floo. “Good,” she said simply, nodding. “Come on.”

Harry followed her deeper into the catacombs of Gringotts. Through the staff atrium, down several stone-hewn corridors, further and further underground and down a narrow stairwell into a small antechamber. There, the rest of Bill’s team were gathered, all of them in plain grey ritual robes. Bill’s bright red hair, loose around his shoulders for once, stood out brightly against the dull clothing. He hurried over to Harry with a grim expression on his face.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, both hands on Harry’s shoulders as he looked the teen in the eye. “Harry, I trust you, but I— _we_ need you to be sure. There’s only one chance at this.”

“If I ignore the vision he’s sent me, the Ministry will fall,” Harry returned, knowing without a doubt that Voldemort would consider it the ultimate insult for Harry to ignore his twisted summons. The Ministry wouldn’t just _fall_ , it would be razed to the ground. “If I go without doing this, I can maybe hold my own against him, but it’ll show my hand. It has to be today, Bill. This is it.”

Bill’s blue eyes bored into his for a long moment. Then he nodded, and pulled Harry into a tight hug. “With you all the way, mate,” he promised gruffly. When he pulled back, he was practically radiating determination — gone was the concerned older brother, and in his place was a warrior ready to do what was necessary. “Makali needs to check you over, before we can get started,” he explained, gesturing to the corner of the room where the goblin waited next to a wide stone ledge. “He’s got a robe for you, too. You can duck into that little alcove to change, I promise no one will peek.” A faint teasing lilt to Bill’s tone made the tension in Harry’s shoulders ease ever so slightly.

“Right. Just as we planned, then.”

He retrieved his robe from Makali, hurrying into the alcove to strip down. Luckily this wasn’t a ritual that required the user to be cleansed, but he still didn’t want anything on his person to disrupt the natural flow of the magic. These robes were the next-best thing to going skyclad — all his clothes, his possessions, even his glasses must stay outside. He couldn’t even wear contacts.

The world slightly fuzzy thanks to his lack of eyewear, Harry exited the alcove and turned to the short grey-and-blond mass that he assumed was Makali. The goblin healer was gruff but efficient, murmuring under his breath in his native tongue as his magic rippled over Harry’s skin. Harry lay down on the stone ledge so that every part of him could be checked — and so that Makali could carefully daub his forehead with a tincture that was supposed to strengthen his connection to the horcrux within him. As soon as the liquid made contact with his skin, Harry hissed sharply.

“Does it burn?” Makali asked, concerned. Harry shook his head.

“No, but it definitely works.” All of a sudden he was feeling Voldemort’s emotions like he was inside a vision; the anticipation, the blood-thirst, the rage. It seared through his scar, blurring his vision even more. But Harry pushed it away — it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Makali finished up swiftly, and a much taller grey-and-blond mass hauled Harry carefully to his feet.

“All looks good to me,” Dec declared softly. His hand cupped the back of Harry’s head, holding him to study him closely, and Harry knew that if he could see properly, he’d see the man’s violet eyes turn glassy and ethereal. “Nasty bugger’s locked in there nice and tight. Probably as good as we’ll get it.” He ruffled Harry’s hair. “You ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

With Dec’s arm guiding him, he entered the ritual chamber.

Harry vividly remembered the ‘dry run’, as they’d called it, where the team had run through exactly what the ritual would entail and what was expected of him. He hadn’t been brought down to the chamber itself, as Gringotts had a policy of allowing no entry unless it was to be used. There could be no magic outside the ritual used inside, either; not even to light the candles or fill water bowls. The balance of the ritual chamber was a delicate thing.

If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Harry would have been utterly in awe of the space. It was a huge natural cavern, the stone walls flecked with the occasional vein of ore or gemstone that had not been touched. Any detail to the place, such as the shallow steps down into the main basin, had been done by hand entirely without magic. The floor was polished to a high sheen, a perfect ring of pure platinum inlaid in the very centre. The only metal to be entirely neutral to magic. He wished he had his glasses, if only to admire the tiny details that surely had to be present in such a splendid place.

Harry could _feel_ the magic in the air as he let Dec lead him to the centre of the platinum circle. There was a smaller piece of platinum here, a mark of the absolute centre, and Harry knelt down so the mark was directly below his heart.

“We’ll let you know when we’re ready,” Dec murmured, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. Then he was alone.

Sure, the others were working swiftly around him to set up for the ritual — lighting candles and painting runes and measuring distances perfectly — but there, inside the circle, Harry felt acres away from them all. The magic here was strongest, pulsing through his very bones. His own magic practically vibrated with the need to meet that pulse. But he couldn’t yet.

At last, they were ready. The nine members of Bill’s team — a magically powerful number, and a powerful connection between them — stood at equal intervals around the edges of the circle. Seven of them held lit candles made with various potions, while directly in front and behind of Harry were the twin goblins — one held a crystal amplifying orb, and the other held Salazar Slytherin’s locket. Harry could feel its slick, oily magic calling to him, recognising like for like in his scar.

He locked eyes with the twin in front of him — Kalax, the elder of the two, the one with the locket — received a sharp nod, and began to chant.

At first, when discussing the ritual, Harry had been worried he wouldn’t be able to remember all the details. He could hardly fathom that fear now; the words fell from his lips like a waterfall, not a single doubt in his mind about what was to come next, the chamber’s magic rising to meet him. Absently he heard the cursebreakers around him begin to chant as well, anchoring his own magic, sending it searching far and wide for the remaining pieces of Voldemort’s soul. Harry focused hard on the magic within his scar, the soul residing there — he almost had to forget himself and put _everything_ into the foreign soul, pretend it was part of him, pretend it was _all_ of him. This, he knew, was the biggest risk of the ritual.

Either it didn’t work, and the ritual failed to allow him to disperse the remainder of the soul.

Or, it _did_ work, and the ritual was so thorough it ejected everything it did not consider to be part of him at that time; namely, his _actual_ soul.

But he didn’t have the space to fear, or worry, or doubt. He only had the space to _trust_.

His eyes fell shut as he continued his aspect of the ritual — it didn’t matter what the others were doing, not really, as long as he could feel their combined magic bolstering his own. The ritual had been designed by a dark lord, not a ritual master; it didn’t contain much in the way of detail during the ritual itself. All the detail had been in the preparation — the potions in the painted runes, what the candles were made of, the tincture on Harry’s forehead. If he were looking for his own soul, it would have been daubed over his heart.

He felt the magic build and build, pulling and searching, his scar throbbing icy-hot. He pushed through it all, repeating the chant he now had burned into his eyelids, thinking with all his heart of how desperately he wanted penance and freedom and rest. How he wanted to eschew all artificial connections to this earthly realm.

Had he been able to see — had his eyes been open — he would have seen the ritual chamber light up with an ethereal purple-black glow, the amplifying crystal filled with black light. The candles held by the seven anchors were burning down far quicker than should be possible, spilling wax over their hands and onto the stone, but not one of them complained or broke from their chant. They were trained professionals.

Suddenly, there was a _tug_ — like someone was trying to rip Harry’s brain out through his scar. He couldn’t help but gasp, spine arching backwards, eyes flinging open though too blinded by magic to actually see. He grit his teeth and fought the tug, knowing instinctively that this was a piece of himself he did not want to lose to the ritual.

The twins’ chanting rose in volume, and the locket in Kalax’s hands burst open abruptly, releasing a cloud of black smoke and the most unearthly, soul-piercing scream. Kalax did not drop it, did not even flinch, her voice steady as she continued to chant.

The black smoke dispersed quickly into the magic of the chamber, and Harry felt it like a punch to the gut. His scar ached — not with pain, but with loss.

He finished his cycle of the chant, then fell silent. All his concentration turned towards staying upright; if he fell in the circle, if his heart moved from centre before the ritual was finished, there would be dire consequences.

His pulse thudded in his ears as he watched — the seven anchors raised their candles in unison, and with a shout the flames extinguished abruptly. Silence echoed through the chamber. Harry didn’t dare move.

At last, Kalax bent over, set down the open locket on the edge of the platinum ring, and drew a gnarled finger through the ash-drawn rune between her feet.

It was like pulling the plug in a bathtub. The build-up of magic disappeared with a _whoosh_ that left Harry dizzy. The team began to file out — Fleur helped Harry to his feet, and escorted him out of the chamber when he discovered his knees were wobbly.

Once they were back in the antechamber, Harry gladly accepted his glasses, the sudden sharpness of the world making him wince. “Did it work?” he croaked hesitantly, turning to Kalax.

The goblin gave a sharklike grin. “The locket is inert,” she declared. “As there was no outcome which involved one soul piece dispersing but not others, we can only assume the rest of the Dark Lord’s soul has gone where it belongs.”

There was, of course, no way to tell for sure, but knowing how much time this team had put into the ritual Harry was happy to take that as the best confirmation he could get.

“Did he feel it, do you think?” Emine piped up softly, worrying her lower lip. She didn’t even seem to notice Makali healing her wax-burned hands.

Harry took a moment to concentrate on his scar — something that was much easier than usual with the tincture still present. “He doesn’t feel any different,” he said slowly. He imagined that if Voldemort had felt any of what had happened, Harry would know — anger, confusion, even fear; one of them would be present in the Dark Lord’s mind, and therefore in Harry’s.

“Let’s hope he won’t notice the potion, either,” Conrad remarked grimly.

Harry had almost forgotten about the potion aspect of it all. His stomach churned — it wasn’t over yet.

With that reminder of the work yet to come, the team gathered tightly, watching as Harry sat back on the stone ledge. Thanax handed him a small wooden box; inside was the potion, swirling pale-blue and faintly glittering within its vial. It was barely more than a mouthful, but Harry was assured it was potent stuff.

“Don’t take it yet,” Makali warned, appearing at Harry’s side with a white cloth. Reaching up, he carefully wiped the tincture off of Harry’s forehead, then smothered the whole scar in a creamy cleansing potion. Instantly, Harry’s headache eased, his awareness of Voldemort returning back to its usual state.

He grimaced, imagining what might have happened if he’d taken the purging potion with the binding tincture still in place. “How’s he looking, Dec?” Makali asked. Harry glanced over at Dec, who surveyed him with his mage-sight.

“Far as I can tell, he’s ready,” the Irishman replied. He flashed Harry a grin. “Bottoms up, eh, Potter?”

Harry tried to return the grin and, at Makali’s reassuring nod, downed the potion in one large gulp.

It was like swallowing fire.

He doubled over in pain, pursing his lips firmly against the instinct to vomit. Someone squeezed his shoulder in assurance. Through pain-hazed eyes, he noticed something black and viscous begin to drip from his forehead. It sizzled when it landed on the stone floor by his bare feet. The fire in his belly spread along his veins, surging through every single inch of him. Had there been any other spells or enchantments on him, or potions in his system, they would have been purged as well. But the main purpose of this potion was the horcrux, and it seemed to be working.

Harry couldn’t have said how long it took, only that he was immeasurably glad when it was over. The pain subsided, and he sat up — looking straight at Dec’s beaming grin. “Aye, that’s much better,” the mage-seer announced. “I can actually look at you now!”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Did that mean… “It’s gone?” he checked. Dec nodded.

“Not a trace of it on you; only your own magic. Blimey, I’d love to do some tests on your core right now — but obviously, there isn’t the time,” he added quickly, as if just then remembering why Harry had come to the bank in the first place.

The nausea in Harry rose for an entirely different reason. “He’s mortal.” The words didn’t seem real.

“By all our calculations, yes,” Conrad replied. “Now what?”

“Now I go to the Ministry,” Harry said instantly. He glanced down at himself. “Should probably get dressed first, though.”

Jenna blurted out a slightly hysterical giggle.

“Bill and I will fight with you,” Fleur told him, silver eyes defiant. By her side, Bill nodded.

“Goblins do not spill blood in the wars of wizards,” Kalax said, her eyes hard. “But we wish you all the courage and valour of the goblin warriors of old. We shall guard the vaults, whatever today’s outcome.” Thanax and Makali nodded in agreement. Harry offered them a bow.

“I appreciate that. I don’t expect any of you to fight with me; we have people for that.” He looked at Jenna and Emine, at Conrad and Dec; none of them would be particularly useful in a fight, and they would be the first to admit it. “You’ve all done your part. Wars aren’t just about fighting.”

The four of them looked relieved. “We’ll be here when you get back,” Conrad assured him. “If… if there is further work to be done.”

If the ritual hadn’t worked, he meant. Harry’s stomach tightened at the very prospect.

“Bill, Fleur; you two go meet the others at Headquarters,” he instructed, already pulling his boxers on beneath his robe.

“Are you not coming too?” Fleur asked with narrowed eyes. Harry shook his head.

“I’m going straight to the Ministry.” He smiled wryly. “Don’t want to keep him waiting, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh here we go~


	31. Chapter 31

The Ministry atrium was empty when Harry arrived. He’d expected as much, but it still made the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.

He didn’t waste any time — for all he knew, Voldemort himself was waiting in the Department of Mysteries. His scar would no longer act as an early warning system; something he was sure he’d be glad about eventually, but right now just made him anxious. He’d grown so used to having that connection to make him aware of Voldemort’s moves. He felt exposed without it.

Had he not been so focused on the destination, he might have been amused that this journey was so similar to the one he’d taken the last time he’d been in the Ministry building; the one where he’d been expelled. There was no brief stop at Mr Weasley’s office this time, though; just straight down to the bowels of the Ministry.

Like in his dreams, he walked down the dark corridor towards the plain black door. Like in his dreams, it was open when he reached it.

Unlike his dreams, the room went dark and the walls began to spin as soon as the door was shut.

His magic fizzled in preparation at his fingertips, fully recovered from the ordeal of the ritual. Perhaps he should have waited for the Order. Perhaps he had been too hasty with the ritual, should have let the Order handle this whole thing and taken more time to train.

He shook his head. There was no time for doubting himself.

The walls slowed to a halt — Harry now had no idea which door he’d entered through, nor which one he needed. He grimaced; Department of Mysteries indeed.

He opened the door directly in front of him, discovering a long, rectangular room seemingly filled with large glass tanks. Something swam in the depths of that murky green liquid, but Harry sincerely doubted they were fish.

Not wanting to get involved in whatever the fuck the Unspeakables were working with down here, he shut the door again.

Again, everything went dark, and the walls span.

“I need to visit the Hall of Prophecy,” he declared into the empty room, hoping on the off chance that might work. The blue flames on the wall seemed to flare brighter for a moment, and the walls began to slow again. Once they stopped, Harry opened the door in front of him.

“Huh,” he murmured, staring into a familiar room glittering with diamond-bright light. “That’ll do it. Thanks.” Shaking his head at the baffling sentience of magic, he entered the room.

Now that he could see it clearly, no longer rushed through by his dream-self, Harry could see the room was filled with all manner of gleaming clocks and time-pieces. At the far end of the room was the tall crystal bell-jar that filled the room with light, and Harry hurried towards it. Before he could reach for the door beside it, something caught his eye and he skidded to a halt.

“Blimey.” There was a hummingbird inside the jar, drifting up on the current within — only, when it drifted back down again, it reverted into a scrawny little bald scrap of a chick, and then all the way back into an egg. He watched the hatching cycle once over, eyes wide. Then he glanced over his shoulder at all the timepieces in the room. “Surely they aren’t _all_ …” He trailed off. The Ministry couldn’t possibly have that many Time-Turners, could it? Not all just sitting unguarded in a room in the basement?

He thought for a second about the various incompetencies of the British Magical Government, and realised that yes, that was _exactly_ something they would do.

“Not my problem,” he muttered to himself with a scowl, shaking his head and resolutely opening the door to the prophecy hall. This room was just like it had been in his dreams — lit with the eerie blue-flame candelabras, endless shelves covered in rows and rows of dusty glass orbs. The temperature dropped significantly, and Harry shivered.

On high alert, he edged into the room — he was not alone, but that was all he knew. It could be Voldemort himself down here or a welcoming party of Death Eaters, or both. Harry hoped it wasn’t both; he didn’t want to have to fight in this room. Not only was all that glass a health hazard, but it would take _forever_ for the cavalry to get down here to help.

Adrenaline running through his veins, Harry forged ahead, checking the numbers on each row. In his dream, he’d found Ron and Hermione at the end of row ninety-seven. When he reached the row, it didn’t seem any different than all the others. Body tense, he crept down the aisle.

Nothing.

There was no one there. Harry frowned — he’d expected _someone_. Even if it was just a couple of lackeys in masks come to kidnap him for their master. Unless…

Harry turned to the shelf of prophecies with a sickening sense of realisation. There, written on a yellowing label beneath an orb that was entirely identical to all the other orbs, was his name.

_S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D_

_Dark Lord_

_And (?)Harry Potter_

Of course. Harry wasn’t here to fight, or to be stolen away like after the Triwizard.

“I’m not your fucking _errand boy_ ,” he groused, glaring at the prophecy orb.

“Oh, such language.” Harry whipped around, raising one hand warily, cursing himself for allowing someone to sneak up on him. Moody would have his hide for that!

It was Lucius Malfoy, his white-blond hair hidden by the hood of his cloak, but his voice utterly unmistakeable. All around Harry, black-robed figures melted from the shadows, their wand tips lit threateningly.

“What’s this?” Malfoy drawled, clearly amused. “You don’t even have a _wand_?” The Death Eaters around him tittered. “What are you going to do, Potter; fight me like some filthy muggle?” His compatriots laughed louder.

Harry wasn’t phased. He smirked, folding his arms over his chest. “I reckon I could take you,” he replied evenly. “If you’re anything like your son, your nose’ll break pretty easy.”

Malfoy hissed, stepping closer. “Awfully cocky for an unarmed boy, aren’t you?” His wand drew level with Harry’s nose. “Perhaps the rumours are true — did you crawl back to your pathetic muggle relatives after your wand was snapped? No one thought it possible, but there was no trace of you having procured a new wand. No sign of you in any magical spaces.” The man chuckled coldly. “Couldn’t bear to show your face, I’d imagine, after your _fall from grace_. Tell me, Potter; did it hurt, knowing your _adoring fans_ were so quick to cast you aside?”

“Can’t say I really noticed,” Harry said with an unconcerned shrug.

“Hurry it up, Lucius,” a female voice snapped from the man’s left. Harry felt dread gather in his stomach, an absolute certainty that beneath that hood was Bellatrix Lestrange. “Make him hand it over and let’s kill the little whelp!”

“I’m not giving you anything,” Harry argued — falling back on Gryffindor bravado was always a great stalling tactic. He wished he’d checked the time at any point after leaving Gringotts — he had no idea how long he’d been there, no idea how much time he’d given for the Order to gather. They would have started to mobilise shortly after Bill and Fleur showed up at Grimmauld. He wouldn’t be by himself for long.

He hoped.

“I don’t believe you have much of a choice,” Malfoy retorted.

“Ron and Hermione aren’t here,” Harry said. “You don’t have them, do you? You don’t have anything I want.”

He gritted his teeth through Bellatrix’s mocking and the other Death Eaters’ laughter. They didn’t need to know he’d pegged the vision as a fake immediately. They might start to question his presence, otherwise.

“We have your life, in our hands,” Malfoy pointed out. “Retrieve the prophecy and give it to me, and I will let you walk out of here and return to your pathetic muggle life, as if the wizarding world had never heard but a _whisper_ of the name Harry Potter.”

Harry snorted despite himself. “You don’t think I actually believe that, do you?” he asked. “I give you this — prophecy, was it? And you just let me skip off into the sunset?” He glanced back at the shelf where the prophecy sat. “What does Voldemort want with some Christmas tree ornament?”

Bellatrix screeched so loud Harry was surprised the glass orbs weren’t shattering. “ _You dare say his name!”_ she wailed, lunging forward. Malfoy’s arm flung out to stop her.

“Now, now, Bella,” the man soothed. “You will get your turn. Should Potter here need a little… encouragement.”

“Why don’t you get it yourself?” Harry retorted, though he already knew the answer.

“Only those mentioned in the prophecy are allowed to remove it from the shelf,” Malfoy explained. “You see, Potter; that is all there is to it. Give us the prophecy, and you can turn your back on all those _sheep_ who abandoned you, everyone who turned their backs at the slightest sign of trouble. You don’t owe any of them. You don’t owe _Dumbledore_ — if he cared about you, he’d have you back in his precious school by now, would he not? No, the old man is too busy to worry about even you, his precious Golden Boy. Your friends have not offered their help, not a single person has spoken out in your favour. They just expelled you and washed their hands of you, didn’t they?” Malfoy shook his head mock-sympathetically. “Oh, how that must have hurt.”

Harry bit back a smirk. If only he knew. “My friends still care,” he insisted, letting his voice waver a little. “There was nothing they could do, not with Fudge in your pocket! You’re the reason they expelled me!”

While he spoke, he mentally counted the Death Eaters and surveyed the shelves around him, pulling together a plan. This was the worst place for a fight; he had to bring it to somewhere the Order could meet him.

“They expelled you because they did not believe you,” Malfoy snapped.

“ENOUGH!” Bellatrix screamed, raising her wand. “Pick up the prophecy, Potter, or we’ll make you. _Crucio!”_ Harry made to duck the spell, but he needn’t have bothered — Malfoy shoved Bellatrix aside, sending the spell flying wide.

“Don’t attack, we need the prophecy!” he reprimanded. Harry bit his lip, taking the best distraction he was likely to get, and launched into action. In a split second, he’d reached out and pulled the prophecy off the shelf with his right hand — while his left send a discreet burst of magic towards the shelves on the other side, snapping three of them clean in half and sending a cascade of glass and prophecy-shadows to the ground. In the chaos that followed, Harry shoved his way between the Death Eaters behind him, sprinting down the row of shelves towards the exit. As the Death Eaters realised what he was doing, they began to fire spells at him — he dodged easily, and they only hindered themselves as their spells caused more damage to the shelves, obstructing their way after Harry.

He could hear Bellatrix’s scream of rage, and the shouts of other Death Eaters trying to follow him; he raced towards the door he’d come through, flinging it open and hurling himself back into the room full of timepieces.

Hoping desperately that the Order was on their way by now, Harry didn’t hesitate — he could already see the first couple of Death Eaters drawing closer to the door. Sprinting straight through the sparkling room, he found himself back in the circular chamber. He made to close the door, to send it spinning once more, but a burst of sickly yellow spellfire shot through the doorway; he flung himself backwards to avoid it, and it was just enough of a pause for the Death Eaters to start flooding in. Many of them had lost their masks, their robes dusty and ripped from the shattering glass. Malfoy was in the lead, pale eyes enraged. Not sure what else to do, Harry lunged across the circular chamber and reached for the nearest door, relief filling him when it opened. But that relief was short-lived.

He hadn’t found the door to the lift back up. Instead it was some sort of viewing chamber, the floor sunken and carved into rows of stone benches, steps leading down to the bottom where a single dais stood, holding a stone archway that made Harry cold just looking at it. There was a tattered black veil hanging from the archway, fluttering in a breeze that didn’t exist.

The entire room felt Wrong, but Harry didn’t have much of a choice; Malfoy and the others were hot on his tail. He hurried down the steps inside the room, trying to put as much space between himself and the Death Eaters as possible.

“Give it up, Potty!” Bellatrx cackled, sauntering in his direction. Her hood and mask were gone, her face just as pale and unhinged as it had looked in the newspaper. “You’re unarmed against the Dark Lord’s finest, you don’t stand a chance! Hand over the prophecy!”

“Unarmed, am I?” Harry smirked, transferring the prophecy to his left hand, raising his right. “Just try me.”

And then the fight began.

He got in a couple of good shots purely through the advantage of the Death Eaters being utterly gobsmacked by his wandless casting. Malfoy screamed remarkably like his son as Harry’s bone-breaker curse caught him in the thigh, and another Death Eater ran right into the path of the strangulation hex Harry had initially aimed at Bellatrix. He went down, and didn’t get back up.

“That’s not Potter!” One of the Death Eaters exclaimed. “It’s Dumbledore in disguise, or something!”

“Of course it’s Potter, you idiot; he’s holding the prophecy!” Bellatrix argued. When she turned back to Harry, it was with her wand raised and her teeth bared. “Ickle Baby Potty did some growing up while he was out of school,” she drawled. “Thinks he can fight like a big boy. _We’ll see_.” At her last snarled words, she began casting his way. Harry shielded and dodged, trying his best to keep his footing on the steps of the viewing room. It was slowing all of them down, casting without falling down the stairs. Harry was suddenly glad for all the times Kingsley had harped on about footwork, making sure he could keep his balance even in an earthquake.

With dozens of spells coming at him, Harry didn’t get much of a chance to cast any of his own in return. Between his screams of pain, Malfoy was yelling at them to be gentle with him, to be careful of the prophecy, but it seemed the bloodthirsty Death Eaters didn’t care about that anymore. They were too eager to put the cocky teenage boy who dared to fight them in his place.

Harry was more than happy to let them try, but he hoped some sort of reinforcements arrived soon. He was _desperately_ outnumbered.

Almost as if summoned, all of a sudden more people began to burst through the open door. Harry’s heart soared at the sight of Sirius and Kingsley right up front, their wands raised. The Death Eaters cried out in alarm, whipping around to defend from this new enemy, and Harry grinned.

“Alright there, pup!” Sirius called cheerfully as he duelled his way over to Harry. “What you do to old Malfoy over there?”

“Broken femur,” Harry replied, sending a leg-locker at a Death Eater and watching him tumble down the steps towards the dais. Sirius barked out a laugh.

“That’s my boy!”

Despite Harry’s reluctance to get much closer to the creepy veil archway, he was being edged further and further down the stairs as he duelled; everyone was, keen to get onto somewhat level ground. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Remus duelling a pair of masked Death Eaters with Dedalus Diggle at his side, Tonks and Moody tearing their way through a whole huddle of black-robed figures, Fred and George back to back and grinning widely as they fought.

The Death Eaters still outnumbered the Order members, but the Order was holding its own. Harry was glad for Sirius beside him as the pair of them fought the enraged Bellatrix. She had the higher ground, forcing them further and further into the basin of the room.

“Give up the prophecy or I’ll kill your flea-bitten dogfather!” Bellatrix screeched. Sirius laughed.

“Oh, dear cousin; your insults have lost a bit of their bite,” he taunted. “Was it all that time you spent screaming for your master, three cells down from me? He didn’t come, did he? And he hasn’t come now.”

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Sirius screamed as the spell hit, falling to his knees in pain, and Harry’s heart stuttered. He immediately sent a cutting spell in Bellatrix’s direction — it just grazed her side, tearing through her robe, and by her shout of pain Harry knew he must have hit skin, even if it hadn’t caught full-on. It was enough for her concentration on the spell to falter, and within moments Sirius was back up on shaky legs.

By now, they were cornered against the dais. Harry could feel the strange, cold magic of the thing calling for his attention, but he resolutely ignored it, focusing on the duel. “Harry, he’s not here,” Sirius said. “I want you to take the prophecy and run. We can catch this lot — Bill and Fleur warded the place tight — but if he’s not here, you shouldn’t be either.”

Harry wanted desperately to argue with him. His fight was here regardless of whether Voldemort was brave enough to show up. But if the room was warded… Voldemort wasn’t going to make himself so vulnerable as to show up in a room full of Order members. Although— Harry didn’t see Dumbledore anywhere in the room. Where was he??

“He’ll come,” Harry insisted. Even without his scar he could tell that — the prophecy was off the shelf, one of his Death Eaters was sure to have relayed that by now.

He wanted the prophecy, and he wanted Harry. He would come.

“Then go wait for him,” Sirius argued, deflecting a nasty-looking curse from Bellatrix.

“How the hell am I supposed to get out of this?” The room was utter chaos, and he was right in the centre of it all.

Sirius grinned. “I’ll cover you.”

Then, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out something Harry recognised very well; a Decoy Detonator. “Run!”

The next minute, the noise level in the room doubled, the Detonator doing its job of being as distracting as possible. Harry felt Sirius’ hand gently push at his shoulder, and he began to sprint for the steps. He couldn’t hear spells called over the noise, but he saw Bellatrix on the move towards Sirius, and didn’t hesitate to shoot a non-verbal bone-breaker her way. It hit her on the arm — unfortunately, her left — and she shrieked, turning back to Harry. Cursing under his breath, Harry kept sprinting; she wouldn’t hit him while he was moving, not while he still held the prophecy.

He was halfway up the steps, ducking spells and sending back when he could, Bellatrix haring after him despite her broken arm. He hoped the rest of the Order didn’t think he was bailing out on them, that they understood his strategy. They had to — they knew what he was there for, right? They knew his goal above all else.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he kept running; it didn’t matter what the Order thought of him, as long as they kept fighting.

He was getting closer and closer to the door now; then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright flash of light, and a familiar head of red hair fall crumpled to the ground. His heart jumped into his mouth. The twins were dressed identically, and he hadn’t seen the face — was it Fred or George?

He looked around for a moment, trying to spot the other twin, but he couldn’t — and Bellatrix was gaining on him. He had to move now, before it was too late. Resisting everything in him that said to turn back and see if the twins were okay, he kept going to the door, jumping through and slamming it shut.

“I need the exit!” he yelled as soon as the doors began to spin. He didn’t wait a second once they stopped, powering through the door directly in front of him and crying out in relief when it showed him the corridor to the lift.

“Atrium,” he panted, ignoring the cool tone of the automated voice. “Atrium, now!” His eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the corridor, praying it wouldn’t open, praying that Bellatrix wouldn’t come crashing through. She could call her master, that was fine — but Harry had to get away from her long enough for that to matter.

Thankfully, the lift pulled away, rocketing upwards. Harry looked at his left hand, at the ordinary-looking glass orb he’d somehow kept safe through the whole endeavour. A wild idea popped into his head. He began to chuckle to himself.

And he threw the orb at the floor, smashing it to pieces.

Like the other smashed orbs in the Hall of Prophecy, it immediately released a ghostly white figure. Harry’s eyes widened incredulously at the sight of Professor Trelawney, speaking in the same raspy tone she had once warned him about Peter Pettigrew reuniting with his master in.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, her ghostly form fading. “So the old bat did get it right now and then.”

The prophecy was exactly what Dumbledore had told him, after his trial. He grit his teeth; such a vaguely worded thing, the entire reason his parents were dead. The cause of all the problems in his life.

No more. He was going to end this, tonight.

By the time the lift arrived at the atrium, there was no trace of the prophecy within the orb. Harry wondered if that was it gone forever, or if they would magically reform once the shelves were repaired. He had no idea how prophecy magic worked — or, indeed, how _anything_ in the Department of Mysteries worked. That place was batshit and he wanted no further part in it.

The atrium was still empty, but not for long; only thirty seconds or so after he arrived, another lift rattled to a halt and out spilled Bellatrix Lestrange, her left arm cradled to her chest. “You!” she screeched, throwing a blood-boiling curse his way. “I’ll get you, you little brat! Hand over the prophecy and _maybe_ I’ll let you die quickly.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Harry replied cheekily, holding up his empty hands — and ducking three more spells in quick succession. “Smashed it.”

“What?” Bellatrix’s already pale face grew even greyer. In her shock, Harry hit her with another cutting curse, this one hitting her in the leg. “Impossible! Accio prophecy!” Nothing happened. “Accio prophecy! Accio prophecy!”

“Why didn’t you do that twenty minutes ago?” Harry asked her, baffled. He’d just assumed summoning spells wouldn’t work on the thing. “You’re too late now. You’ll have to crawl back to your master and tell him you lost to a wandless fifteen year-old. Send him my regards, will you? Maybe a nice cruciatus curse or two, I’ve heard he likes those. Tell him I haven’t missed him in the slightest.”

“You can tell me yourself, Harry Potter…”

Harry whipped around at the sibilant drawl — stood in front of a fireplace was the Dark Lord himself. He looked angry. “Tommy!” Harry greeted, grinning. He wasn’t worried about turning his back on Bellatrix; she had dropped to her knees as soon as her master had arrived, and she wouldn’t dare cast at him with Voldemort in the room. “Glad you could make it; I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“You’re awfully brave for a boy with no wand,” Voldemort hissed. Harry’s grin widened.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? I don’t need one.” He sent a whip of fire towards Voldemort, who went imperceptibly wide-eyed for a moment and instantly dispelled it with water.

“Impossible!”

“Clearly not. See, once I was freed from the… constraints of the Hogwarts curriculum, I found myself learning far more interesting things.” He ducked a cruciatus curse, and retaliated with a blister hex. “You didn’t _really_ think I buggered off back to the muggle world, did you? Are you daft?”

“Your arrogance in the face of certain death is impressive. So very like your father,” Voldemort drawled. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, heard it before. Look, are we gonna duel or what?” There was no way he was going to sneak any sort of fatal magic past the Dark Lord’s reflexes; the only way would be to outlast him.

No pressure, or anything.

Before Voldemort could reply, the fire flared green. Dumbledore stepped out, as graceful and calm as if he’d just popped in for tea.

“Do you have some kind of last-minute alarm?” Harry asked him, bewildered. “Do you just sit in a room and wait until something goes ding and tells you everything is almost over? We’ve been here for _ages_.”

“My apologies, Harry; I was caught in a spot of trouble elsewhere.” Indeed, on closer inspection, Dumbledore’s robes were a touch singed, and he was showing faint signs of fatigue.

“Come to save your precious Golden Boy, Dumbledore?” Voldemort spat, eyes flashing bright red. In a move that almost had Harry losing his composure, Dumbledore raised his wand — and transfigured a nearby vase into a squashy armchair, which he then sat down in.

“On the contrary, I rather think Harry has things under control.” His eyes flickered to Harry, just for a moment, almost in challenge. Harry got the message clearly; _you insisted you could handle this. Prove it._

Voldemort let out a snarl of rage and shot a spell towards Dumbledore, which dissipated against the elderly man’s shields.

“You heard the man, Tom,” Harry called, drawing Voldemort’s attention. “This is our fight. That’s what the prophecy said, isn’t it? The one I smashed,” he taunted.

“You truly believe you, a puny little boy, have the power to vanquish the great Lord Voldemort?”

“Oi,” Harry remarked, offended, “I’ve grown like four inches since you saw me last; enough with the puny.” Voldemort growled and threw a cruciatus his way. Harry dodged it. “Yes, I believe I have the power to vanquish you. So let’s duel, and test that, shall we?” He wanted to end this.

Voldemort’s thin lips curled in a cruel sneer, and he raised his wand in a mockery of formal duelling position. Harry smirked at him.

And the duel began.

If anyone had asked Harry what spells he used against Voldemort in that duel, he would’ve needed a pensieve to tell you; everything happened far too quickly, his magic responding to intention more than fully-formed spells. It was more intense than any duel he’d had in the past; even when all five of his trainers had gone against him at the same time. Not only did Voldemort fire off plenty of killing curses, but he threw all manner of dark magic that Harry hardly recognised and didn’t dare shield against. All the dodging was getting tiring, but Harry hadn’t spent all year training for nothing. He summoned vases and loose brick and even several bodyparts from the Fountain of Magical Brethren to protect himself, firing back whatever he could manage. He was making Voldemort work for it, too.

The Dark Lord might have experience on his side, but the age that allowed that experience was beginning to show; he, too, was tiring. At one point, he cast a spell that was supposed to turn the water of the fountain into a cascade of tiny ice needles in Harry’s direction, but they melted and splashed to the ground before they could reach him. Harry snickered.

“Starting to get tired there, Tom?” he taunted, smirking. “Only fair, I suppose; you are getting on a bit. You should be more careful in your old age.”

“Impudent little whelp!” Voldemort hissed. “I am immortal, and my age means nothing in the face of that.”

And there was an opener Harry couldn’t possibly resist. “Immortal? Are you absolutely sure about that?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore sit up straighter in his chair.

“I have performed more powerful and terrifying magic than you would ever dare—“

“Oh, yeah, no, the horcruxes, I know about those,” Harry cut him off. For the first time, he saw fear flash through Voldemort’s eyes.

“Impossible,” the man spat, gaze narrowing. “One of my faithful is a traitor after all. I will discover who, once I have rid myself of you. Avada Kedavra!” Harry twitched his fingers and the spell smashed into the golden centaur’s left arm.

“No worries; it was Regulus Black, he’s super dead now,” Harry assured. “Not that it matters, as you will be soon as well.”

“Knowing of my horcruxes means nothing,” Voldemort retorted. “You cannot best me until you have destroyed them all! And I can always create more!”

“Splitting your soul even further? Wow, yikes, that would be a bad idea,” Harry pointed out. “You’ve barely got any left as it is. Can you feel it? Your magical reserves aren’t quite what they used to be?”

Voldemort’s teeth clenched, and Harry knew he was on to something. “See, after you sent me that rather pathetic attempt at a vision trying to convince me you had my friends, I went to go visit some people at Gringotts, who I’ve been working with on this _fascinating_ old ritual.” As Harry spoke, he continued to duel, finally feeling like he was close to gaining the upper hand. “Turns out this old Germanic bloke — way back before it was even Germany — did what you did and then came to regret it. Decided he didn’t want horcruxes anymore. Anyway, the specifics aren’t important, but long story short; he invented a ritual that allowed the holder of a fragmented soul to forcefully dissipate all pieces of that soul, except for those anchored in a living human body. Made him totally mortal — less than, even, with only a quarter of his soul left.”

“You think you can force me to undertake this ritual?” Voldemort laughed. Harry grinned brightly.

“Oh, no need, don’t worry. That connection between us you’ve been playing with all year? The one that lets me see into your head? That was a present, from the day I killed you the first time. Shit present, by the way, I hate it. But it did come in handy for this. Piece of a soul anchored to a living human body? Check!” He jerked a thumb at himself. Voldemort stared.

“You…”

“I got rid of all your horcruxes,” Harry confirmed. “Didn’t even need to go on a treasure hunt for them. One ritual, followed by a quick purging potion to deal with the bit inside me, and voila — Dark Lord Tommy, mortal once more.” He dared to pause, seeing Voldemort looked too apoplectic to continue casting. “So, does it feel any different? We couldn’t tell if you’d notice when we were doing the ritual. I suppose there’s so little of your soul actually left inside you, it’s probably hard to tell.”

Voldemort’s teeth bared in a snarl, and another killing curse shot towards Harry. Harry dropped to one knee, feeling it singe his hair as it sailed over his head. It was closely followed by another; this one wildly off-target, creating an enormous scorch mark on the wall.

Harry grinned. Voldemort was getting sloppy. Perfect.

“You lie, Potter!” the Dark Lord shouted. Harry jumped to his feet, raising his right hand.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

He saw a flare of green out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it, his focus entirely on the man in front of him. The incantation for the cutting curse clear in his mind, Harry forced the magic from his fingertips — and watched the pale blue blade of magic slice clean through Voldemort’s neck.

Voldemort’s head dropped to the marble tile, and his body slumped beside it a split second later, blood pooling around him. Harry stared, heart hammering against his ribs.

He’d done it.

“It’s Potter! Using magic! Aurors, arrest him!”

Harry whipped around. The flash of green had not, as he’d assumed, been another killing curse — it had been the flare of the floo, signalling the arrival of Minister Fudge and his usual entourage of aurors and officials.


	32. Chapter 32

Harry stared incredulously at the Minister, who wore pinstriped pyjamas beneath his cloak. “Arrest him!” the portly man shouted again. The aurors flanking him did nothing.

“That’s… that was You-Know-Who,” one auror declared dumbly, eyes wide in horror.

“It still is, technically,” Harry told him, stepping up to the body and nudging it with a foot. “He’s just dead now. Most of his followers are down in the Department of Mysteries. And Bellatrix Lestrange—“ Suddenly remembering the woman, he turned to look at the last place he’d seen her. She was still on the floor in supplication. When Harry approached her, there was a pool of blood around her, and an experimental nudge confirmed her to be entirely lifeless. “Wait, never mind, she’s dead too. That one was also me — must’ve been that second cutting curse.” He shrugged unrepentantly. One less psycho in the world for the aurors to deal with.

“What— what is the meaning of this!” Fudge spluttered, looking a little queasy. “You— you were expelled. We snapped your wand!”

“You did,” Harry confirmed cheerfully. He looked down at himself, grimacing at a series of small cuts bleeding a trail down his left arm. When had he gotten those? He placed his right hand over it, murmuring a healing charm. “I learned to manage without.”

Fudge made an incoherent noise, and finally, Dumbledore approached.

“Cornelius,” he greeted, as if they’d just bumped into each other while shopping. “I’m afraid you’ve missed rather a lot here tonight.”

“Dumbledore!” Fudge exclaimed feebly. Dumbledore smiled at him.

“Indeed. Aurors,” he turned to the men behind Fudge, “if you would gather your forces and proceed to the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries, you will find a rather impressive number of Death Eaters bound and restrained beneath an Anti-Disapparition ward, waiting for you to bring them to justice. Many of them may be in need of medical assistance, if you choose to give it. I believe Lucius Malfoy may lose his right leg, if he is left much longer.”

Several people gasped at the name. Harry grimaced. “That one was me, as well,” he volunteered sheepishly. “They’re all wrapped up downstairs, then?” Vivid memories of seeing a redhead hit the ground unmoving flashed through Harry’s head. If the fighting was over downstairs — evidently had been since before Dumbledore had arrived — where were the Order?

How many others had fallen?

“Albus, I need to see them,” he said insistently.

“Now, see here, Potter!” Fudge started, but was ignored.

“Everyone is under Poppy’s tender care,” Dumbledore told him, blue eyes twinkling. “The floo to my old quarters is still the same. Go, I will handle things here.” He glanced over at Voldemort’s corpse, and reached to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Well done, Harry. Very well done. Rest, now; you have earned it.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. Ignoring the handful of Ministry workers gawping at him, and the Minister himself, Harry strode over to the nearest in-tact fireplace and tossed in a handful of floo powder.

“Albus Dumbledore’s Personal Quarters, Hogwarts.” He stepped in, and the fire flared purple. “Phoenix.”

With a whoosh of flame, he was leaving the Ministry far, far behind.

.-.-.

While a small part of Harry was tempted to snoop in Dumbledore’s quarters while he had the chance, the far bigger part of him needed to make sure his friends were okay. He found the exit, which led into the headmaster’s office behind a secret bookshelf. The office was utterly spotless, and had clearly been empty for some time. Harry smirked to himself, remembering the twins telling him how the gargoyle refused to allow Umbridge entry.

Luckily, the stone creature had no such qualms about allowing Harry exit; it sprang aside once he reached the bottom of the staircase, and he began to sprint through the halls of Hogwarts, following a path he knew like the back of his hand even after all this time away — the path to the Hogwarts infirmary.

He didn’t come across anyone — which didn’t really surprise him, considering the time of night — but he half expected to have set off some sort of alarm Umbridge might have set. Where was she, to not notice a dozen or more people being brought into her infirmary? Perhaps the curse had struck after all.

But that didn’t matter, not now. He picked up the pace as he approached the hospital wing, and burst through the door. Everyone in the room looked up and froze, some drawing their wands.

Harry looked around. It was the busiest he’d ever seen the place — every single bed seemed to have someone in it, and four more people at their bedside. He forced down the nausea at seeing it all, eyes scanning desperately until they hit a cluster of red. He looked at the person in the hospital bed — awake, staring at him, pale-faced and bandaged around the stomach.

And definitely Fred Weasley.

Harry’s gaze moved to the identical form sat in the chair beside the bed, and he almost sank to his knees in relief. George was bloodied and bruised, but not in a hospital bed. He was alive.

The redhead stood, stepping forward with wide brown eyes, and Harry didn’t hesitate for a second — he flew across the room and straight into George’s arms.

“Oh thank _fuck_ you’re alive,” he exclaimed, hugging George tightly. “I was running and I saw a twin get hit and I wasn’t sure — I couldn’t stop, I had to keep going— but I thought— one of you went down, I—“ He let his gaze drift to Fred, who was grinning faintly.

“That’s what it takes, is it?” George remarked teasingly. “All this time, and one little battle with Death Eaters is too much for you to tell us apart?” His brown eyes twinkled. Harry choked back a sob. “We’re fine. Fred got hit with a gut-twister curse, but we got him out quick; he’ll be fine by tomorrow night, Pomfrey says.”

The words echoed through Harry’s head. A gut-twister; another green curse, but a paler shade than the killing curse. Still lethal, but not instantly.

Fred was going to be fine. George was fine.

They’d made it out the other side.

He looked George square in the eye. “I did it,” he declared hoarsely, the enormity of the last few hours finally sinking in. “George, I did it. Voldemort’s dead. I killed him.”

He vaguely heard several gasps ring out as his words were heard by the others in the room, but he didn’t care; they didn’t matter in the face of George’s wide-eyed gaze. Slowly, a grin crept across his face, like he hardly dared believe it. Then he adjusted the hold he had on Harry, cupped the back of his head, and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

“You absolute marvel, Harry Potter,” he breathed once they parted, chocolate eyes bright and full of love. “Marry me.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He chuckled, and kissed him again. “Ask me again when I’m old enough,” he declared. Then he paused. “When am I old enough?”

“Eighteen, pup.” The cheerful interruption startled him. He turned, spotting Sirius sat up in the bed opposite Fred, his ribs wrapped with bandages. Sirius smirked at him. “Glad to see you were worried about the rest of us, too,” he teased. Harry flushed. Remus, sat at Sirius’ side, rolled his eyes.

“He’s truly dead?” he asked, hand wrapped tight around Sirius’. Harry nodded.

“Beheaded him with a cutting curse.”

“That’s my lad!” That interruption scared him so much he jumped out of George’s hold — just in time for Mad-Eye Moody to clap him on the shoulders with both hands, shaking him triumphantly. “Knew you had it in you!”

Harry grinned back at the man, chest puffing with pride.

Only then did he begin to notice the other people in the room — the many, many other people in the room. Not only were half the Order crammed in there, but Harry saw Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Luna Lovegood all sat around a hospital bed containing — “Neville!” Harry yelped incredulously. “What are you doing here? You weren’t— you weren’t at the Ministry!”

“You weren’t the only one fighting tonight, mate,” Neville retorted, offering a weak grin. “Us lowly students had our own scraps to deal with. Nothing like the sound of yours, though. You— you really killed him?”

“I killed him,” Harry confirmed, wondering if those words would ever stop sending relief crashing through him. He realised something abruptly, and his smile widened. “I killed Bellatrix Lestrange, too.”

Neville froze. “You— you what?”

“Bellatrix is dead. It was sort-of an accident. Cutting curse to the leg — I was trying to piss her off, but I guess she bled out…” He shook his head. “Either way, she’s dead.”

The other Gryffindor looked like his entire world had just been turned upside down. “Blimey,” he croaked.

Suddenly, Ron let out a strange, almost yelping noise. “But you— and George— he kissed— _Harry_ ,” he whined, wide-eyed and utterly bewildered.

Harry couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. He felt George’s forehead press against his shoulder as the redhead lost his own composure, doubling over in his laughter.

“Ron, you git,” Fred groaned. “It hurts to laugh!” That set George off even harder, and as Harry tried to gather himself he felt the adrenaline begin to drain from him, now the fight was over. His knees wobbled — all of a sudden, he was the one leaning on George, his boyfriend’s arm winding around his waist.

“Easy, love,” George murmured, moving him to sit on the edge of Fred’s bed.

The next thing Harry knew, Madam Pomfrey was in front of him and scanning him with her wand, tutting quietly. “To think, I almost went a whole year without having you in here, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Couldn’t have that, could we?” She shot him a scolding look, and set about healing the multitude of wounds he hadn’t even noticed he had. After some fussing and a tired attempt at an argument, Harry was coerced into a bed beside Fred’s, and he had to admit it did feel good to lie down. Everyone who was conscious was staring at him, many of them flicking their eyes to George with blatant curiosity, but no one said anything until he was settled and Madam Pomfrey had stepped away.

“You two figured it out, then?” Arthur asked, a soft smile at his lips as he watched George immediately take Harry’s hand. Both of them looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he chuckled. “I know what it looks like when one of my boys is in love. Harry, you were harder to read, but… I hoped it would work out.”

“I— how long has this been going on?” Molly questioned, taking a half-step towards them. Harry grimaced.

“We’ll answer everyone’s questions, I promise, but — not tonight?” he begged.

“Give the man a break, Mum,” Fred piped up. “He’s just killed a Dark Lord after all.”

There was a pregnant silence after his words. None of them could quite believe it. Harry let his gaze scan the room, and began to notice some absences.

“Who did we lose?” he asked, dread gathering in his stomach. George’s hand tightened around his.

“Harry…”

“Tell me,” Harry insisted, pulse picking up. He sat up in his bed, counting off Order members.

“Vance was killed by Rosier,” Moody said matter-of-factly. “We lost Doge pretty early on in the fight, too. Diggle’s at St Mungo’s — he needed more than Poppy could give him. He’s in rough shape.”

Harry read between the lines with a sickening sense of horror; Diggle might not last through the night. “Where’s Kingsley?” he asked suddenly, realising the bald auror was not in any of the beds, or stood beside them. It had taken him a moment to recognise Tonks, with her hair dark and long across her pillow, asleep in a bed across the room. But Kingsley was nowhere to be found.

“He’s fine,” George assured, stroking a thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “Fawkes came to pick him up just before you got here; to go sort out the mess in the Ministry, I guess.”

Harry slumped back in relief. Thank Merlin for that.

A selfish part of him was glad that all the people he cared about seemed to have made it out okay. He had been so sure, so convinced he would lose someone close to him. Sure, he didn’t know the degree of injury in the room, but for everyone to be at Hogwarts instead of St Mungo’s spoke for itself.

Speaking of Hogwarts; “So where’s this illustrious Headmistress of yours?” Harry asked, turning to the small cluster of students around Neville’s bed. “I can’t imagine she’d be thrilled to find us all in here.” Not that he cared at this point.

Ginny smirked widely, and Neville and Hermione both blushed.

“Well, uh,” Hermione began awkwardly. “Umbridge is in St Mungo’s too.”

Harry gaped at her. Suddenly, it all came spilling out — how Hagrid had brought his half-brother back from his mission to the giants, and he’d asked Ron and Hermione to help him with Grawp while Umbridge was out for blood. How Umbridge’s people had come for Hagrid during their Astronomy exam, and McGonagall had gone down trying to help him.

“He might be a giant, but we couldn’t just let him live in the forest all alone,” Hermione expressed earnestly. “Not after we’d promised Hagrid we’d help him.”

“I still don’t understand how this ended up with Umbridge at St Mungo’s. Or how you three got involved,” Harry added, glancing at Ginny, Luna and Neville. Luna gave him a wide smile.

“Ginny and Neville and I were caught by the Inquisitorial Squad while we were trying to redecorate Professor Umbridge’s classroom,” she explained airily. “It just so happened to be the same time that Filch caught Ron and Hermione trying to go into the forest.”

“We were graffiti-ing her walls with stinksap,” Ginny said shamelessly. “I guess she assumed the five of us were all working together. Malfoy was making a big fuss about it all, saying we were trying to sneak Harry into the castle — maybe he was told to create a distraction at the school while his daddy was in the Ministry. Next thing we know, Hermione’s spinning some story about a _weapon_ Dumbledore built in the forest, and the five of us are leading Umbridge on a merry little adventure.”

The story got even wilder from there, Hermione explaining her plan to get Umbridge to cross paths with the centaurs.

“I didn’t want to get her seriously hurt or anything,” she defended. “But we needed something to make her not want to come back next year. I figured a run-in with the centaurs would do that.”

Apparently, it all would have been fine had they not also found Grawp — or rather, had Grawp not found them — while Umbridge was busy riling up the centaurs.

“Everything went a bit pear-shaped from there,” Neville said with a faint grimace. “The centaurs tried not to hurt us, but Grawp’s a big guy. Also, Umbridge didn’t like that we’d lied to her. She cast the Cruciatus on me after I broke my leg and couldn’t dodge it. The centaur leader didn’t like that at all; he helped us get to safety and his herd went to town on Umbridge.”

“How did she get to St Mungo’s?” That was Remus, who seemed to be in the same state of horrified fascination as Harry while listening to the story.

“The centaurs chucked her out after a couple of hours,” Ron said with a shrug. “Filch and a couple of the seventh years brought her up and flooed her straight to hospital. Hour or so later, you lot started showing up.”

“Well.” Harry shook his head, amazed. “I apologise for ever thinking you’d have a normal year without me. Those are some serious Potter-level shenanigans.”

“We try,” Ginny replied sweetly. All five of them looked incredibly proud of themselves.

Merlin, Harry had missed them.

All of a sudden, Madam Pomfrey bustled back into the room. “I’ve had word from Albus,” she declared, and every eye in the room was on her. “He has explained tonight’s proceedings to the Minister, and the aurors have detained the surviving Death Eaters. With Professor Umbridge… indisposed, he will be returning to the school tonight.” A cheer went up, but she cleared her throat. “However,” she continued pointedly, eyeing the group. “The Ministry has not been informed of exactly who participated in tonight’s battle, and having all of you in here is not the best thing for the continued secrecy of the Order. I’m afraid I’ll need those of you who can do so to go home — and those injured who do not need to remain under my care to get set up at Headquarters. Not so fast, Mr Potter,” she added, when Harry made to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re to stay here tonight.”

“But— I got expelled?”

“And the Minister wishes to speak to you in the morning. You cannot do that from a house under the Fidelius charm.” Her face softened. “Umbridge is gone, Potter. You will come to no harm in this castle.”

Something in Harry’s shoulders relaxed. It still felt strange, being in the school, but it was weirdly comforting to be allowed to stay the night in the hospital wing. That was where he’d ended up after every previous confrontation with Voldemort, after all.

Beside him, George looked between Harry and Fred with a conflicted expression on his face. Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Misters Weasley, you may have decided to end your education prematurely, but you are still technically students enrolled in this school. Also, with so many of your… distinctive inventions used during the battle, I don’t believe there is any use in attempting to deny your involvement. You may both stay. Besides, I don’t want you leaving that bed for even a second until tomorrow, Fred Weasley; you’re still at risk of torsion,” she added warningly, pointing a scolding finger in his direction. Fred gave her a thumbs up.

“You’re the boss. Staying right here, I swear. No torsion for me thanks.”

Pomfrey eyed George, and the way he was perched on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Separate beds,” she declared briskly. “No funny business, or I will throw out the one of you that is currently uninjured.”

“We’ll be good,” Harry promised. If it meant keeping George with him, he’d deal with sleeping in adjacent hospital beds.

With the knowledge that the Ministry would be coming in the morning — which, by now, was only a few short hours away — the Order began to make their leave. Every single one of them came to say goodbye to Harry before they left, every one of them congratulating him on his actions that night. Mrs Weasley hugged him tightly, kissing his forehead, before doing the same to her twin sons, and then Ginny, Ron and Hermione for good measure. Moody, levitating Tonks on a stretcher, just clapped Harry on the shoulder and went on his way.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, pup,” Sirius promised, leaning heavily against Remus now he was out of bed. Of all the people the Minister shouldn’t see in there, the animagus was at the top of the list. “Floo if you need anything.” He squeezed George’s shoulder, then leaned in to kiss Harry’s hair. “So bloody proud of you, kiddo. You were amazing.”

Harry blushed. “So were you. I wouldn’t have survived without you at my back,” he insisted. “Go get some rest, both of you. You’ve earned it.” Just because Remus could walk under his own power didn’t mean he’d come out unscathed; his torn and bloodied robes made that very clear.

After a hug and a kiss from Remus as well, the pair limped through to Pomfrey’s office to floo back to Grimmauld. The last of the departing Order members was Bill — and Fleur, who was barely conscious and clinging to him like a koala. He approached Harry’s hospital bed, raised his wand, and murmured a quiet spell. Harry felt a tingle of magic wash over his forehead. Only then did Bill crack a relieved smile. “It’s gone,” he breathed. Harry’s chest tightened.

“You’re absolutely sure?” He hadn’t felt anything from Voldemort since taking the potion, but he was still worried the soul fragment hadn’t fully dislodged. That there might still be some part of Voldemort left alive.

“Dec taught me that spell,” Bill assured. “You’re all clear. You did it.”

“We did it,” Harry corrected. “I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without you and the team.” Merlin only knew how long the war might have lasted, how many people might have died.

Bill’s smile widened, and he ruffled Harry’s hair. “Glad we could help.” Then he winked. “And I’m very glad to see you two finally admitting things.” He bumped George’s shoulder, ignoring the tongue the redhead stuck out in response.

“Your mum’s gonna go mental when the shock wears off,” Harry said with a grimace. He smirked at Bill. “Fancy sharing a bit of the family drama and putting the contents of your desk drawer to work?”

Beneath his freckles, Bill paled. “How do you know about that?” he hissed. Harry _almost_ told him that Fleur already knew, but he didn’t want to ruin that for Bill. Instead, he just tapped his nose conspiratorially. Bill’s blue eyes narrowed. “You little shit,” he said eventually, snorting and straightening up. He adjusted his hold on Fleur, looking at the much smaller gathering. “We’ll be back tomorrow, I want Fleur to get checked out once she’s back on her feet,” he said. “For the love of Merlin, try and stay out of trouble for the next twelve hours, alright?”

Silence fell when he left, the room only holding the five students and the three not-quite-students.

“What was all that about?” Ron asked. “With Bill?”

“What was that spell, Harry?” Hermione queried. Harry, who had thought Ron was referring to his teasing about the ring in Bill’s desk, made a face.

“I’ll explain in the morning,” he promised. He still wasn’t sure how much he was willing to tell people, and he sure as hell wasn’t coherent enough to make that decision now. The exhaustion was rising swiftly.

“Let’s just all get some sleep, yeah?” Fred suggested loudly, giving his younger siblings a pointed look. “Been a hell of a day.”

“I quite agree, Mr Weasley,” Pomfrey said, returning to the main ward with a pale green potion, which she handed to Fred. “You four—“ She turned to the cluster of students, “off to bed with you. You can come back in the morning, but there’s no need for all of you to stay here tonight. I’m sure the rest of your houses will be _delighted_ to hear the news about the headmistress.”

“Might want to keep a lid on the, ah, _other_ news, though,” Harry suggested tentatively. “See what the papers say in the morning. Don’t want to cause a fuss.”

“Right, yeah,” Ron agreed. He got to his feet, looking a little awkward. Once again, his eyes were flickering between Harry and George. “We’ll see you all in the morning, then.”

Ginny, Luna and Hermione all hugged Neville, and the next thing Harry knew he was receiving the same treatment.

“I always knew you would succeed,” Luna told him matter-of-factly. “The nargles told me so.”

Harry blinked. Yeah, he was too tired to figure that out. “Thanks, Luna,” he said instead, smiling at the girl he had never met but who seemed to be a stalwart part of the friend group he’d been missing all year.

At last, there were only five of them in the room. “You can take that bed, Mr Weasley,” Pomfrey said, using a set of quick spells to have fresh sheets on the bed beside Harry. Then with another wave of her wand, she had both George and Harry changed into striped pyjamas. “I’ll be back to check on you before breakfast.”

Watching to make sure Fred took his potion, she then bustled off to her office, presumably where her own quarters could be accessed. Harry let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair and grimacing at the feel of gritty pieces of blood and prophecy-glass still tangled in there.

“Get some sleep, love,” George urged, pulling him into a kiss before reluctantly heading over to his own bed. “It’s all over, now. You can rest.”

The words hit Harry like a punch to the chest, echoing through his mind as he laid down and closed his eyes.

Finally, he could rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all didn't really think I would kill off someone important without tagging for character death, did you? :P


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two chapters after this one are basically just unrepentant fluff and I'm not remotely sorry. I think we all need some fluff these days~

Harry awoke slowly, to the feel of blunt-nailed fingers carding through his hair. “Mm, George, time izzit?” he groaned, eyes still shut. He felt like one giant, exhausted bruise.

“How the hell does he know it’s you?” That was Ron’s voice. Harry scrunched up his nose, the memories of the night before flooding back to him. He cracked one eye open, just in time to fuzzily watch George raise a pointed eyebrow at his younger brother. Ron’s face went bright red. Somewhere, Hermione giggled.

George turned back to Harry, expression softening, and he gently slid Harry’s glasses onto his face. “Good morning, oh great Saviour of Magic,” he greeted with a teasing smirk. Harry blinked. Then he groaned.

“How bad are the papers?” he asked flatly. George chuckled.

“Full of shite, as always.”

“Oh, joy.” Harry cracked a yawn, making an attempt at sitting up. A twitch of his fingers revealed it was a little after nine. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione. “Shouldn’t you two be in class or something?”

“Classes are cancelled ’til the end of the year,” Ron explained. “Thanks for waiting ’til our exams were over for all this, mate. I’d hate to be trying to remember all the goblin names and such after all this.”

“Dumbledore’s back,” Hermione supplied. “Well, technically. He’s at the Ministry helping sort everything out right now, but he’s been reinstated as Headmaster. McGonagall gave a speech at breakfast — Umbridge no longer works here in any capacity.” She looked relieved, and Harry noticed her unconsciously rubbing the back of her right hand.

“Thank fuck for that,” Harry muttered.

“While I don’t appreciate your language, I can’t fault the sentiment, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey remarked, bustling into the ward. “Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Sore, tired. Magical exhaustion for sure,” Harry told her, taking mental stock of his situation. “Don’t think I’ve got any injuries, though.”

She scanned him anyway, then gave an approving nod. “Take it easy for the next few days, you’ll be right as rain. And you’re in luck; Minister Fudge is too busy to leave his office today, so that particular meeting can wait until you’re feeling better.” She shook her head in amazement. “Fighting Voldemort himself wandless and coming out with hardly a scratch. Only you, Mr Potter.” Harry grinned, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Here, eat up.” At her words, a tray with a steaming plate of food and a cup of tea appeared over his lap. Harry’s stomach growled ravenously. Suddenly, he was _starving_. “Mr Weasley, how are you feeling?”

For a split second of panic, Harry worried George was hiding some sort of injury from him. Then he realised the witch was talking to Fred, who was sat up in the bed beside him.

“Like that porridge I had earlier is all I want to eat for the next week, quite honestly,” the redhead replied. Pomfrey frowned.

“Yes, it’ll take a few days for your intestines to readjust. Small meals and nutrient potions for you, young man — if you can eat some toast at noon, I’ll let you go.”

Fred brightened up, nodding, and Pomfrey moved to fuss over Neville, who had Ginny and Luna at his bedside.

Harry began to tuck in to his breakfast, wolfing down the full English he’d been supplied. “Merlin, I’ve missed Hogwarts food,” he moaned softly. George reached over and stole one of his fried tomatoes, and Harry glared at him with a mouthful of beans. The redhead winked.

“I can’t believe we didn’t see this before,” Hermione said, drawing the attention of the pair. “How long has this been going on, between you two? You weren’t like this at Christmas.”

Fred coughed to hide a laugh as Harry and George glanced sheepishly at each other. “Nothing actually happened until the twins left school,” Harry told her.

“Sorry, are we calling two years of mutual pining _nothing_ , now?” Fred cut in pointedly. Despite his stomach ache, he seemed to be getting a huge amount of joy in watching the pair of them squirm.

“ _Two years_?” Ron repeated incredulously. “You never said anything!”

“There was never a good time,” Harry sighed. “It’s— it’s complicated, alright?” He knew he could attempt to explain six ways from Sunday and his two best friends still wouldn’t understand.

“He’s my _brother_ though, mate.” Ron looked slightly ill at the thought of Harry and his brother being a couple. “And I thought you and Ginny had a thing? You gave her your firebolt!”

Across the room, Ginny burst into laughter. “He gave me that broom so I could make Malfoy cry, Ron,” she explained. “I told you a thousand times, there’s nothing between us. I have a boyfriend. And apparently, so does he.” She smirked. “Didn’t expect it to be George, mind, but it’s been obvious for years that Harry’s queer.”

From the looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, it was not obvious to them.

“You’d better get used to it, Ron,” Harry warned. He was too tired to put up with any shit about his love life — it would be bad enough when the press caught wind of things.

“Well,” Ron blustered, “you two better have thought this through. You’re both family — if you break up it’ll be another Percy situation all over again.”

“Why do you think it took us two years?” George retorted. “We’re not idiots, little Ronnikins.”

Ron turned wary blue eyes to Harry, who sighed. “Look, Ron. I— it’s always been George, alright?” He looked at the brown-eyed redhead sat beside him, his heart positively _aching_ with love. “Don’t worry about us messing up the family. We won’t let that happen.”

George, unable to help himself, leaned in for a chaste kiss. “Love you, too,” he murmured. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione whisper something in Ron’s ear, her gaze knowing.

Whatever she said, it ended Ron’s complaints there.

Harry’s tray disappeared once he’d finished his breakfast, and he raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Do I get to see the Prophet now?” he asked pointedly. George huffed.

“Oh, if you insist. You won’t like it, though,” he warned as he handed over a newspaper. Harry unfolded it over his lap, eyes immediately drawn to the headline - **_The Boy-Who-Vanquished; Wandless Harry Potter Kills You-Know-Who in Ministry Ambush_**.

“Boy-Who-Vanquished?” he complained. “Really?”

Ignoring his friends’ amusement, he kept reading.

Luckily, thanks to the mysterious absence of Rita Skeeter, the article wasn’t _too_ sensationalised. But it was very clear that the information had all come from second-hand sources. Namely, Dumbledore. The old man had spoon-fed the journalists with everything they could want for a fantastic article, keeping most of the real facts vague and obscured. There was only a mention that _sources revealed_ Voldemort was planning to attack the Ministry that night, and that because of this the Order was gathered. No mention of Harry’s vision, or the fact that he had made the call for war. Indeed, Dumbledore made it sound like Harry had let the Order go in first and do the majority of the fighting against the Death Eaters, and just waited up in the atrium for Voldemort.

There was no mention of Dumbledore’s own late arrival, and it was heavily implied that the headmaster had helped Harry during his duel, rather than sitting in a conjured chair and watching it like a soap opera. As well as that, the article went on for several paragraphs about how Harry had been trained in secret by the headmaster and a group of secret tutors. It practically suggested he’d been expelled as a ruse to do exactly that; Fudge trying to cover his own arse, probably.

There was also no mention of the prophecy, just a brief mention that Voldemort had been ‘in search of esoteric magics’ in the Department of Mysteries.

The article finished by assuring that the Unspeakables had confirmed that Voldemort was indeed dead for real this time, and that the body had been verified and would be cremated along with those of the deceased Death Eaters who were not claimed by family.

The only Death Eaters mentioned by name in the article were the ones who had escaped Azkaban earlier in the year, confirming them as either dead or re-captured. The rest, the Prophet declared, would be sent to trial in due time and their names and crimes would be released when the facts had been gathered.

Harry wondered how long it would take for enough _facts_ to be gathered for someone to finally throw Lucius Malfoy under the bus.

“Y’know,” he declared once he reached the end of the article. “I think the only bit they actually got one hundred percent right is that I beheaded Voldemort.”

“It’s that inaccurate?” Hermione asked, looking horrified. Harry felt a twinge of guilt; for the first time, Ron and Hermione hadn’t been right beside him through most of his adventures. They’d been living a completely different life to him this past year, and he’d kept them in the dark about almost all of it.

“Just about. Dumbledore didn’t call the Order, I did; Voldemort tried to trick me with a vision into thinking he was torturing you and Ron down in the DoM — he wanted me to come and pick up the copy of the prophecy about us so he could steal it from me and figure out how to win.” Harry flashed Hermione a quick grin when he saw her face go chalky. “It was a pretty convincing vision, but I knew it would take more than the Dark Lord himself to drag you out of Hogwarts on the same day as your OWL exams.”

Hermione flushed, smacking him lightly on the arm, while Ron laughed.

“What happened next?” The call from across the room startled Harry — he hadn’t realised Neville, Ginny and Luna were listening in. He looked around the ward, gave his exhausted magic a mental nudge, then reached out and _tugged_. Neville’s bed levitated over, trading places with the one on Fred’s other side. The Gryffindor boy startled, his eyes going round.

“They really weren’t kidding about the wandless magic thing, then?” Neville asked in awe, while Ginny and Luna hurried to join the group.

“No, that part was true too.”

Slowly, Harry told his friends about his adventure the night before; Fred and George only knew about the vision and the part of the battle they were there for, so they were just as enraptured by his description of the fight against Voldemort.

“Dumbledore just sat there?? He did nothing?” Fred repeated angrily. Harry shrugged.

“He’s always trying to test me, you know that. He probably would have stepped in if it looked like I was going to fail.” Privately, Harry wondered if the headmaster hadn’t been trying to teach Harry a lesson, refusing to aid him after Harry had spent all year insisting he was better off without the man’s particular brand of ‘help’. If he had, well; that had backfired on him quite spectacularly.

“Does it bother you, that the Prophet makes it sound like Dumbledore did half the work? Training you and everything?” Ginny asked. “Even I know that he didn’t teach you a thing in the last year. You wouldn’t let him,” she added with an amused grin.

Biting his lip, Harry mulled the question over. Had it been a year ago, he probably would have been spitting feathers, watching his own efforts and contributions be downplayed in favour of the headmaster, the old man manipulating the story for his own benefit once again. But, quite frankly, Harry was far too _tired_ to care about all that.

“Not really,” he said eventually. “The important thing is that Voldemort’s dead for good. The Prophet and the public were never going to know the full story — and even if they did, they’d twist it with rumours until it was barely recognisable anyway.” He’d had plenty of experience with that over the years. “If Dumbledore wants to take the praise and the credit, that’s his problem. I just want to get on with my life; quite frankly, the less the public think I had to do with it, the more likely they are to leave me alone.”

“Think you might be asking a bit much there, mate,” Fred replied. Harry grimaced — yeah, that was always going to be a long shot.

“But the Prophet talks as if your wandless magic is just a fluke,” Hermione argued, looking upset. “Like you had to try really hard to make it work enough to kill Voldemort. You’ve been doing wandless magic easier than regular magic all year!”

“And how long before someone decides that makes me as much a threat as Voldemort?” Harry pointed out grimly. “I don’t want to make a big fuss over it, Hermione. I know what I can do, and the people whose opinions I value know what I can do. That’s the important thing.” Anyone who had seen him training for more than five minutes in the last year would know that Dumbledore’s version of events was utter bollocks. Harry didn’t care what the public thought of him.

“You’re going to let him get away with all this, then?” George asked, watching him carefully. Of everyone there, he knew the most about how frustrated Harry was by the headmaster’s rampant manipulation of the public. Harry sighed.

“Yeah. I don’t think arguing would get me anywhere. I don’t want to sound like bloody Lockhart,” he added wryly. “Besides, it’ll come out in the Death Eater trials that I showed up long before the Order, and stayed fighting through the majority of it. They’ll all say they didn’t see Dumbledore anywhere downstairs until the end.” The lies would start to fray around the edges, in time. “People will think what they want regardless. If they want to worship him for something he didn’t do, that’s fine by me. He’s getting ancient anyway, he’ll be dead before the next big mess arrives.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, even as the rest of the group snickered.

“What? It’s true!” Wizards might have longer lifespans than muggles, but Dumbledore was pushing even that. “He likes to think he’s the lynchpin for all this, but he’s not — now Voldemort’s gone and the Death Eaters are mostly rounded up, the people in the Ministry who have been trying to make real changes will finally have the space to do that. The school should finally be able to get a decent Defence teacher that stays longer than a year. People can get on with their lives again, regardless of what Dumbledore is doing.”

He knew, from being around various members of the Order all year, that there were dozens of people waiting in the wings to start getting magical Britain back to rights. Now that the threat was over, and Fudge was about to come under fire for denying Voldemort’s return for a whole year, that change could begin. Albus Dumbledore didn’t have nearly as much to do with it as he liked to think he did.

“I might write the Prophet about one thing, though,” he said suddenly, amusement lighting his eyes. “Ask them to stop with all the bloody nicknames, I mean, _seriously_.” They’d used at least five different ones in the article, and all of them were terrible.

George grinned mischievously. “You mean you _don’t_ want to be called the Wandless Conqueror? Or the Saviour of the Light?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Harry scowled.

“If you ever call me any of those things, I will lock you out of your own damn bedroom,” he groused. Ignoring the scandalised looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, George’s eyes lit up in challenge.

“As if you’d deprive yourself, gorgeous,” he drawled huskily.

“Oh, Merlin, make them stop,” Fred groaned. “I’m nauseous enough without you two making eyes at each other. Get used to it, kids,” he added to Harry’s gathered friends. “They’re like this _all the time_. It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t be jealous, brother dear,” George replied. Fred flipped him off.

“You should read the other article, Harry,” Luna said suddenly, gesturing to the paper. Harry frowned at her.

“Other article?”

The blonde girl flipped through several pages of various nonsense about the Ministry attack, as well as an article about Umbridge that Harry would definitely be coming back to, before pointing to a small headline in the corner of the paper. Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

‘ ** _Peter Pettigrew, Death Eater — Caught Alive in Ministry_** ’.

It was a small article, tucked away in all the other sensationalist news from the defeat of Voldemort. All it said was that Peter Pettigrew, who had previously been thought murdered by Sirius Black, had been one of the marked Death Eaters caught in the Ministry ambush, and that Head of DMLE Amelia Bones had declared that enough evidence for an inquiry into the sentencing and incarceration of Sirius Black.

“Oh, shit, I didn’t see that one,” George muttered, squeezing onto the bed beside Harry to get a proper look. Harry leaned against him, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Sirius is going to get a trial,” he murmured, stunned. Hermione gasped.

“Really?”

Harry nodded. “They caught Wormtail last night. I hadn’t realised he was even _there_.” His head swam at the news. Had Sirius seen it yet? Was he even awake yet? He’d been in pretty rough shape last night. Harry wished he was back at Grimmauld, wished he could see his godfather celebrate this wonderful news. Sure, he’d have to go through a trial, but if he requested veritaserum…

“Sirius will be free,” he croaked, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He turned to the redhead at his side. “George—“ He was cut off by a firm kiss, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“I know,” George soothed, beaming when they parted. He stroked Harry’s cheek. “I know. You can go see him later.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and suddenly a small crowd was flooding into the hospital wing. Right up front was Remus, and his eyes immediately landed on Harry, then to the newspaper in Harry’s lap. His face lit up. “You’ve seen it, then?”

“Moony, how is he?” Harry asked immediately, holding out his arms. Remus hugged him tight.

“He’s fine. A bit sore, but nothing permanent,” the werewolf assured. “He’s over at the Ministry right now, talking to Amelia.” When he pulled back, Harry studied him; he looked ten years younger already. This was one hell of a weight to have lifted off his shoulders.

“You can do something to help, Harry,” Bill cut in, approaching with a grin. He pulled something out of his pocket, handing it over to Harry. It was a folded piece of parchment with the Gringotts seal. “I got this from Stonehook; the Ministry has given Gringotts permission to unseal your parents’ wills for the trial. They just need your stamp of approval.” He held out a small stick of bright blue wax. Harry tore open the parchment and scanned the missive within, his heart lightening with every word. Within seconds, he’d melted a blob of wax onto the bottom and pressed his signet ring in. Once it set, the seal sparked with magic, and the parchment vanished in a flash of gold.

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Happy to help,” Bill replied, beaming. “Sirius deserves it.”

“You all do,” Fleur agreed, hobbling up to Bill’s side. She still looked shaky, but she was beaming. Harry immediately tucked his legs up, gesturing for her to sit on the end of his hospital bed.

“You should get Madam Pomfrey to take a look at you,” he urged, glancing around to see where the matron had gone.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Fleur assured, patting his shin. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Harry waved her off. “I’m just glad it’s all over.”

There were many vehement noises of agreement. George kissed the side of his head.

Remus sank into the chair between Harry’s bed and Fred’s, and gave Harry a brief update of how things were going in the outside world. From the sounds of things, it was total chaos; the whole country was beginning to realise how deep the Death Eaters had infiltrated the Ministry, and how incompetent Fudge and his ilk had been to let them. “Malfoy’s name has already leaked to the public, thanks to some St Mungo’s staff,” the werewolf supplied, smirking. “Don’t be surprised if Draco leaves school early. Sirius expects Narcissa will be able to plead coercion and will move the pair of them to France once Lucius is recovered and sentenced.”

“Good riddance,” Ron muttered, looking gleeful. “Any luck, he’ll transfer to Beauxbatons. Imagine our last two years of school without Malfoy!” His gaze immediately went to Harry, and then he faltered. At his side, Hermione bit her lip.

“You could come back to school now, Harry,” she suggestive tentatively. “The papers already made it sound like your expulsion was a ruse. Now Dumbledore’s back in power, and Fudge is trying to save face… I bet they’d let you get a new wand and come back for next year.”

She looked so hopeful, but Harry sighed. “I think that ship has sailed, Hermione.” After the last year of relative freedom, he couldn’t imagine going back to school and having classes and curfews and house points.

“But— you could take your exams over the summer. I’ll help you study, you’d pass them no problem, I bet!”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Fleur cut in, startling Madam Pomfrey, who was busy murmuring healing spells over the part-veela’s lower back. Somewhat awkwardly, Fleur reached into her purse and handed an envelope to Harry. “Maman sends her love, and her congratulations.”

Harry wondered how Fleur had sent word of Voldemort’s defeat back to France so quickly, to have heard back from Apolline already. Then he opened the envelope, and realised what Fleur actually meant.

He was holding his OWL results.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. Beside him, George had frozen.

“Go on,” he urged softly. “Open them.”

With trembling fingers, Harry unfolded the parchment fully.

_Dear Mr Harry Potter,_

_Enclosed are the results of your International Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations, as certified by the_ _Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France._ _Congratulations, and best wishes on your future education, from all here at the Department of Magical Education._

_Sincerely,_

_Apolline Delacour._

**_O.W.L Results: Harry James Potter_ **

_Transfiguration: O_

_Charms: O_

_Herbology: EE_

_Potions: O_

_Defence Against the Dark Arts: O_

_Ancient Runes: O_

_Arithmancy: O_

_Care of Magical Creatures: EE_

_Astronomy: O_

_History of Magic: O_

Harry stared, unblinking.

“Well?” Remus pestered impatiently. George propped his chin on Harry’s shoulder, reading the results for himself. He snickered, eyes lighting up.

“You fucking nerd,” he declared, smacking a loud kiss on Harry’s cheek. “Eight Os, two Es,” he said louder, addressing the rest of the room. Fleur squealed in delight.

“That’s brilliant, Harry!” Remus enthused, wrapping him in a hug that also grabbed George thanks to his current limpet-like state. “Sirius is going to be over the moon when we tell him.”

“I— what?” Hermione blurted, face bewildered. George plucked the parchment from Harry’s hand and waved it at her.

“Brainbox here took his OWLs in France a couple weeks back,” he explained, beaming. “You’ve got a bit of competition, by the looks of it!”

Hermione snatched the results from his hand, scanning them carefully.

“Oh, Harry! Is that where you disappeared off to for those four days?” Mrs Weasley asked, looking a mix of proud and disapproving. Harry nodded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said with a small grimace. “I just didn’t want to make a fuss. I stayed with Fleur’s family, her mum organised everything for me.”

“I… you… Harry,” Hermione spluttered, wide-eyed. “You took all those exams in _four days_? That’s impossible!”

“Nah, just a bit of a tight schedule,” he replied. He _really_ didn’t want to get into it over academics with Hermione, and he hoped she didn’t make too much of a big deal about it. He hoped she wasn’t jealous.

“Blimey, Harry,” Neville remarked, “you really _have_ been busy this year, haven’t you? First a Dark Lord, now acing your OWLs; you’re making the rest of us look bad!”

“Bit sickening, isn’t it?” George agreed, though his face said otherwise. “The rest of us mere mortals are not worthy!”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry muttered, shoving his boyfriend gently. “It’s not that big a deal. Studying is easier on my own schedule.” Besides, he was learning things much harder than OWL material all year; studying the curriculum had been something of a break. Hermione was still staring at him, speechless.

“Nerd,” George repeated, grinning. His brown eyes glittered, and Harry knew he was only restraining himself from more lewd comments because of their audience.

“Looks like you really have outgrown Hogwarts after all,” Ginny said, clearly impressed. “Does that mean I can keep your firebolt a bit longer?”

Harry snorted. “Ask me again at the end of the summer.” He would finally be able to fly again; he might not be able to give it up after that.

“It’s a bit of a shame, though,” Neville sighed. “It’s been quiet without you around. Weird.”

A sigh escaped Harry’s lips. “It’s been weird not being here,” he admitted, not even willing to pretend otherwise. “I’ve missed Hogwarts. But coming back, being a normal student again…” He shook his head. “It feels like a step backwards, y’know?”

After the last year being treated mostly as an adult — and the last couple months being able to see George as much as he wanted — he couldn’t go back to being cooped up in the castle.

“I might have a solution, if you’re interested, Mr Potter.” That was Madam Pomfrey, and Harry looked at her with raised brows. She smiled. “I meant it when I said you have a natural affinity for healing magic. If you’d like to nurture that affinity, I’m sure I could arrange with the headmaster to take you on as my apprentice. You’d have time in the castle and be able to see your friends — even join some of the NEWT classes, if you wished — but you would be able to go home at the end of the day.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to George, and Harry felt his cheeks heat, even as his jaw dropped.

“I— really? You think I have that talent?”

“I think you have far more talent than you’re aware of,” Pomfrey confirmed. “I’d be happy to help you develop that talent, and figure out how best you’d like to use it.” Her face softened. “Hogwarts is still your home, Mr Potter. If you want it.”

Clearing her throat, she straightened up, fussing with some empty potion vials on Fred’s nightstand. “Take the summer to think about it. I won’t be offended if you say no — I just wanted you to have options.”

“Thank you,” Harry blurted. He felt everyone’s eyes on him like laser beams, waiting expectantly for him to declare he’d be coming back to the castle in some capacity. “I’ll let you know soon.” He wanted to talk it over with his godfathers, and with the twins, and maybe even Moody and Tonks and Kingsley.

Most of all, he wanted at least a month to relax after defeating Voldemort. His future could wait until then.

.-.-.

As promised, Fred was discharged at lunch time, after he kept down some toast and a nutrient potion to Pomfrey’s satisfaction. Under Mrs Weasley’s watchful eye, Harry flooed with the twins to Grimmauld Place.

The house was entirely empty, but for Kreacher. Harry had expected as much; Sirius was still at the Ministry organising his trial, and everyone else who might swing by the house was busy sorting out the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall.

Harry’s bit was over. He could hand it off to the adults, now.

Fred was still a little unsteady on his feet, so Harry and George helped him up to the twins’ room and settled him into bed.

“I’m just gonna go back to sleep for a bit, so if you two could fuck off and go be adorable elsewhere…” Fred drawled, smirking at them. George rolled his eyes, cuffing his twin gently round the head.

“Yell if you need anything, Freddie.” His hand moved to ruffle Fred’s hair, then he turned to Harry. “You heard the man! Let’s go be adorable where he can’t see us.”

Harry laughed, but obligingly took George’s hand and left the room. They headed up to Harry’s room, and Harry immediately began unbuttoning the hospital pyjama shirt he’d been sent home in. Apparently, the house elves were struggling to mend and clean the clothes he’d battled in.

“Ooh, hello,” George drawled, eyes darkening as he watched more of Harry’s chest be revealed. Harry smirked, letting the shirt drop to the floor.

“Down, boy,” he teased. “Celebration sex can wait for later; I’m still bloody exhausted.”

George’s expression turned sympathetic, and he pulled Harry into a loose embrace, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “I’m not surprised.” He hummed, and Harry felt the tension leak from his shoulders, his body curving gratefully into George’s. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

“Promises, promises,” Harry muttered, making George chuckle.

The pair of them stripped down to their boxers, collapsing onto Harry’s mattress without even bothering to pull back the duvet. Harry snuggled in close to George’s muscled chest, and _finally_ he began to feel some kind of peace.

George’s fingers carded through his hair gently, his other hand resting on Harry’s hip. “You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You killed Voldemort before your bloody sixteenth birthday, Harry.” His tone was full of awe. Harry tried his best to process the words, but they felt almost like a foreign language — he’d spent half his life working up to this moment, he couldn’t quite believe it was _real_.

“Rejoining the wizarding world is going to be a nightmare,” he said instead, grimacing at the thought of the media circus that would greet him any time he went somewhere magical for the next few months. How long would it take for things to die down?

“They’ll get bored after the first few times you tell them to fuck off,” George assured with a chuckle. His arm tightened around Harry. “I’m just so glad you made it through okay. Merlin, when you left the fight— I knew you were going to find Him. If Fred hadn’t gone down right then, I would have followed you. It damn near killed me to watch you go off on your own like that, without being able to tell you I loved you one last time.”

“If you had followed me, he _would_ have killed you,” Harry pointed out, fingers curving around George’s side, trying to hold him impossibly closer. “You kept Fred safe, and you kept yourself safe.” He swallowed thickly. “If I’d come out of that battle only to hear you’d died…” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to continue the thought. The minutes between leaving the Ministry and reaching the hospital wing, the time when he hadn’t known if George was alive — it was the longest, most painful few minutes of his life.

George’s lips pressed to his forehead. “I’m fine. It’s over.” Harry felt those lips curl into a smile against his skin. “We don’t have to hide in front of the family anymore, either.”

That made Harry grin, even as nerves bubbled in his belly — everyone was still in too much shock to properly interrogate them, and he was dreading when that changed. But they all seemed happy for the pair of them. He had plenty of people on his side.

“Yeah. Or… anyone else?” he broached tentatively. “I mean, if I’m coming back to the wizarding world— if people are going to have their noses in my business all the time… I don’t want to lie about this. About loving you.” He felt George tense. “And since you’re about to become one of the most successful young businessmen in Diagon Alley, I don’t want anyone thinking you’re single, either,” he added half-jokingly, trying to ease the tension. “If… if you’re okay with that?”

George shuffled down so they were eye to eye, his gaze bright. “Harry,” he began, voice choked with emotion. “As if I was _ever_ going to let those vultures get those claws into you without making it very clear that I’m the lucky bastard you’ve chosen to love. I thought maybe I’d bring it into the new fireworks line — have them spell out ‘George and Harry 4-ever’ or something like that. Maybe put out an ad in the paper?” He grinned. “At the very least, print it on some t-shirts.”

There was a beat of silence, then Harry dissolved into giggles, rolling them over until he was straddling George, pinning him to the bed. “I love you so much,” he declared fiercely. George smiled back, face full of so much adoration it made Harry’s heart ache.

“I love you too. And I’m looking forward to being very smug about that in front of reporters over the next few weeks, alright?” The redhead’s smile turned mischievous. “It’ll be fun to have people other than Fred to make uncomfortable with how besotted we are, won’t it?”

Harry grinned back, leaning down for a long, languid kiss. “They’re going to hate being in the same room as us,” he agreed, laughing.

He knew this joy wouldn’t last forever — that it would surely turn to frustration once he stuck his head out of the little bubble he’d remained in for the last year, once he had to tackle Fudge and the Prophet and all the other idiots of the world. But right now, Harry would revel in the joy, because it was the best he’d ever felt in his entire life.


	34. Chapter 34

It was July 6th, 1996, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was officially open for business.

Voldemort had been dead and gone for around two weeks, and the wizarding world was still regaining its footing, but the twins had decided not to delay their grand opening — people were ready to celebrate, and they were more than happy to provide.

It was still weird for Harry, walking openly through Diagon Alley. He didn’t do it often, not wanting to be hounded by reporters and fans and even the odd Voldemort supporter who tried to hex him dead. But in a way he was glad for the way things had worked out; it meant he could be exactly where he wanted to be when the shop opened.

Stood in a small crowd of Order members in the corner of the shop, watching Fred and George absolutely flourish.

The shop was crammed full to bursting, a riot of colour and noise and activity in exactly the way the twins had hoped it would be. Lee Jordan and the three chasers of the Gryffindor quidditch team were working the tills and frantically fetching more stock, while the twins were in the middle of the main floor, happily demonstrating their wares to an awe-filled crowd. Harry saw plenty of familiar faces — several of whom waved discreetly at him, if they saw him hidden between Tonks and Remus, clearly understanding he was trying not to draw attention. Sirius already had a crowd of his own on the floor above, relishing in his new status as a free man, and he was happily aiding in keeping the spotlight off Harry.

Harry wanted to be there for Fred and George, but he didn’t want to monopolise their big day. If the crowd began to notice that Harry Potter was among them, it would turn into a circus of a whole different kind. So Harry kept his head down and just watched, his heart fit to burst with pride.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see Bill grinning expectantly. “Heads up,” he whispered, his other arm around Fleur’s shoulders. “Mum’s here.”

Harry whipped around, immediately looking to the shop entrance. Somehow, among all the chaos of the fall of Voldemort’s regime, the whole lot of them had managed to continue to keep the secret of the twins’ shop from Mrs Weasley. Arthur knew, of course — Harry was beginning to realise the man was far more observant than anyone thought, and far more like his twin sons than he was willing to admit — but Molly had been kept utterly in the dark. Until now.

The redheaded matriarch’s eyes looked ready to fall out of her head as she goggled at the inside of the shop. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked up at her husband, who was beaming with pride in it all. She said something that made Arthur grin sheepishly before replying. Harry wished he had an Extendable Ear to listen in.

There were tears in Mrs Weasley’s eyes by the time she spotted the twins in the midst of it all, and the next thing they knew she was weaving expertly through the crowd towards them. Harry glanced to George, wondering if he’d noticed yet, but he seemed too engrossed in the show he and Fred were putting on. At least until Molly reached the front of the crowd. Fred dropped the box of Skiving Snackboxes he was holding, and George stopped mid-sentence.

Harry daringly moved closer, and he felt Bill and Fleur keeping close behind him. He wanted to see how this played out.

“You… you did all this?” Mrs Weasley stuttered, looking around the packed shop. “All these things, they’re all your inventions?”

“Yeah. All our _silly little pranks_ ,” Fred replied, just the hint of bite to his voice. Mrs Weasley sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, boys, I— I had no idea. You never said… why did you never say anything?”

“You would have stopped us,” George pointed out. “You were always trying to get us to focus on finding a _proper job_. But this is it, Mum — this is what we want to do with our lives. And without bragging, I think we’re gonna do pretty well with it.”

“George— Fred— oh!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, overwhelmed. She wasn’t even trying to stem her tears, and she rushed forward to bundle the pair in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you both! I’m sorry— I didn’t understand— I had no idea!” she said again. “This is wonderful, my darling boys — look at this! You did all this by yourselves! Where did you even get the money for this?”

Harry was surprised when George met his gaze over his mother’s head — he hadn’t expected the redhead to notice him approaching. He should’ve known better. The redhead made a beckoning gesture, and wriggled out of his mother’s embrace.

“We had a bit of a hand starting up,” he admitted. “Then it all sort of grew from there.” As Harry drew closer, George reeled him in by the hand, winding his arm around the shorter boy’s shoulders.

“I gave them my Triwizard winnings,” he confessed to the stunned woman. “I didn’t want the money, and they’d just been scammed out of about that much by Ludo Bagman. But everything else was these two, building the business up from scratch,” he insisted. “My money was a drop in the ocean compared to what they earned to get to this point.”

People were staring, as they always did when Harry was present, but Harry was only focused on the woman in front of him, and the twins at his sides. “Your sons are incredible, Molly,” he told her, still feeling strange calling her by her first name. “They might not be working for the Ministry like you wanted, but they’re absolute geniuses, and they’re going to change the wizarding world with their inventions. They deserve every bit of this success.”

“Oh, Harry, dear.” Mrs Weasley could barely get the words out, her emotions utterly overwhelming her. She squeezed the three of them in a tight hug, and when she released them her husband was stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“Why don’t we let the boys get back to work, Molly, love?” he suggested gently. “Take a look at these marvellous things they’ve made.” He beamed at the twins. “This really is quite fantastic, boys. You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished — we certainly are.”

“Yes, of course!” Mrs Weasley agreed immediately. “So proud! Oh!” She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. Harry squeezed George around the waist encouragingly, and the redhead reached out to take his mum’s hand.

“We have a flat up above the shop, too,” he told her. “Why don’t… how about you and Dad come over for dinner this weekend? We’ll cook, we can talk about all this properly.”

Mrs Weasley burst into a new round of tears, and Mr Weasley tucked her into his side. “That sounds wonderful, boys. Just give us a time, and we’ll be there,” he assured. “Come on, dear.” He gently led his wife away to compose herself in privacy. Harry looked up at the twins, who both seemed shellshocked by the whole exchange.

“I’d say that went well,” he declared, startling both of them. George grinned somewhat shakily.

“Don’t say that until after the dinner,” he joked. “Which you’re part of, by the way.” Harry went wide-eyed, opening his mouth to protest, but George cut him off. “We had your godfathers over for dinner, and I know it was about showing the Marauders the shop, but it was also— more than that, y’know?”

Harry, who still vividly remembered George trying so earnestly to impress and charm Sirius and Remus, nodded.

“I know you’re practically family already. Hell, Mum probably loves you more than she loves me, sometimes,” George added wryly. “But… I’d like you to be there for dinner with my parents. As my boyfriend. So we can show them the shop, and show them this. Us.” His smile turned a little shy, hope shining in his eyes. “Is that okay?”

Harry didn’t see how he could possibly say no to that — even if the thought of facing down Mrs Weasley as her son’s new boyfriend, without any of the rest of the family there to deflect to or hide behind, had his palms growing sweaty. He nodded again, and George beamed at him.

“If you two are going to snog, can you take it to the back room?” Fred cut in bluntly, amusement oozing from his tone. “I don’t want you distracting the customers any more than you are already.”

Indeed, when Harry looked up, they’d gathered something of a crowd — he and George had already gone public in the Prophet thanks to being photographed kissing outside Gringotts over a week ago, but they’d been fairly absent from the public eye ever since, and people were keen to know more.

Harry blushed fiercely, and even George’s ears were pink. “Right you are, Freddie,” he said. Then, to Harry’s surprise, George was whisking him towards the tills, ducking through the crowd waiting to pay and past Katie Bell, who snorted as they passed. The noise level immediately dropped once they passed the threshold of the back room, and George kept going until they were tucked away in the corner behind a stack of boxes. He pulled Harry close, hands dropping to the seeker’s hips.

Harry reached up to run a hand up the front of George’s purple dress robes, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You sure you don’t want to be back out there?” he asked in a whisper. “You two were having fun. I didn’t mean to interrupt; I just wanted to check things were going okay with your mum.”

“Trust me, Potter,” George drawled, voice going husky. His thumb slid under the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, stroking bare skin. “I’m _exactly_ where I want to be right now.” Then he leaned in, sealing his lips over Harry’s, groaning softly when Harry’s mouth parted beneath him. Harry leaned into the kiss, up on his toes as he pressed himself closer, trying to deepen the angle. With a growl of annoyance, he shifted his hands down and yanked on George’s thighs, shoving him back against the shelves and using his magic to hold him aloft — the way he’d done the first time they’d kissed, the way he knew drove George wild. The redhead moaned, hands sliding up the back of Harry’s t-shirt, gripping at his shoulders. Harry wished they could apparate upstairs and go straight to George’s bedroom. His erection strained against the fly of his jeans, George’s legs wrapped tight around his hips.

“You looked so fucking sexy out there, y’know that?” Harry gasped, George’s lips immediately latching onto his throat, biting just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure across Harry’s skin. “In your element, surrounded by fans, showing off the stuff you’ve worked so hard on.”

“Got a competence kink, Potter?” George rasped teasingly, heels digging in as he arched against Harry.

“You know I do.” By this point, even just a short few months into their relationship, George knew pretty much every kink Harry had — that Harry himself knew about, at least. “A possessive streak, too. Maybe I should be kissing you like this where everyone else can see, make sure they know you’re mine.” He’d seen the adoring looks from plenty of customers throughout the morning, as well as many considering glances towards the love potion type products.

George cupped his cheek, meeting his gaze, brown eyes bright with lust and love and a dozen other emotions that made Harry’s heart flutter. “Pretty sure they know already, love,” he assured playfully. “You said so in the newspaper, remember?”

Harry grinned — yeah, he’d been pretty clear about his relationship status, when some idiot Rita-Skeeter-Wannabe had asked him in the middle of the Voldemort press conference if he was looking for love now he was the saviour of the wizarding world. Harry had shut that down very firmly, declaring his love for George without hesitation. And Merlin, had that felt good.

“How much longer ’til closing time?” he asked, pressing George harder against the shelves, his need evident.

“Few more hours, I’m afraid,” George replied, fingers tangling in Harry’s hair and pulling him down for another kiss. “Freddie’ll kill me if I bail out now, as tempting as you are.” He smirked, the sight sending a hot pulse of want straight to Harry’s gut. “Think I can stay back here another ten minutes or so, though. Put me down and I’ll give you something to tide you over ’til tonight.” He licked his kiss-swollen lips pointedly. Harry’s heart stuttered. He was so hard it _hurt_.

“What if I don’t want to put you down?” he retorted, squeezing George’s arse pointedly. He shifted his hold, making George grip tighter with his legs, and moved a hand to part the redhead’s dress robes, searching for the fly of his dragonhide trousers. “I’ve got a better idea.”

George moaned as Harry squeezed him through his trousers — and then there was a shriek that made Harry almost drop the redhead. George’s feet hit the ground and Harry spun around, his eyes going wide at the sight of Ron and Hermione staring at the pair of them.

“Oh fuck,” George muttered. Harry felt the mortification rise with the heat in his cheeks.

“I— Fred told us to— we came to get more fireworks,” Hermione blurted. “He said there’s more. Back here. We didn’t mean to—“ She cut herself off, looking anywhere but directly at Harry or George. Ron, on the other hand, seemed to have gone catatonic.

“Ugh, fucking Fred,” Harry grumbled. “He _knew_ we were back here.” He glanced at George. “Your brother’s an arsehole.”

“I’m putting Puking Pastilles in his dinner tonight,” George said by way of agreement. He was a delicious-looking mess, still half propped up against the shelves, and Harry desperately wished the interruption hadn’t utterly killed his arousal.

“Fireworks are over there,” he said, gesturing to the opposite side of the back room. “Very back, left side shelf.” As he said that, someone appeared from the area he was pointing at, two boxes stacked in their arms. Katie froze when she saw the four of them, then grimaced apologetically.

“My bad, guys, I thought they knew where to find stuff,” she said, hefting the two boxes into a still-dazed Ron’s arms, smiling when he instinctively gripped them before they could hit the ground. “You probably should find a better place to get your dicks out, though — don’t you literally live upstairs?”

Harry choked. “You— When did you come in here?”

“I’ve walked past you both like four times in the last ten minutes,” she told him, laughing. “You just looked a bit busy, so I didn’t interrupt.”

Harry hadn’t thought it possible to blush any harder than he already had been.

“Alright, alright; all of you bugger off,” George groused, glaring at them. “Bloody perverts.”

Hermione squeaked, opening her mouth as if to protest, then shut it abruptly and turned around, practically dragging Ron with her. Katie just kept laughing, offering a lazy salute before leaving the pair alone once more.

George groaned, letting his forehead fall against Harry’s. “Fuck,” he whined, making Harry chuckle.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he promised, tangling his fingers in George’s hair. “We should probably get back out there, though. See what else is running low.” At this rate, the twins would be out of stock entirely before the end of the week!

“Mm,” George said, though he clearly had no intention of moving, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. “Couple more minutes. Let me just enjoy this for a bit longer.” He smiled against Harry’s cheek.

“This day will power one hell of a patronus,” Harry agreed, nuzzling him gently. The shop was the twins’ dream, not his, but he was so fucking _happy_ for the pair of them, Harry felt like he could conjure a whole army of patronuses himself.

“Told you,” George murmured. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, all right here.” He squeezed Harry pointedly. “Doesn’t get much better than this.”

Harry thought about it — the only things he’d ever truly wanted in his life, really dreamt about and wished for, were for Voldemort to be gone, for a family of his own, and for George Weasley to be his.

“You’re right, there,” he agreed, somewhat hoarse. Then he smiled tentatively. “Guess we’ll have to start thinking up some new dreams to work on.”

George grinned back, kissing him firmly.

“Oh, Harry, love — I’m sure we can come up with a few.”


	35. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks. One last, fluff-filled chapter for your enjoyment. Huge thanks to everyone who's been supporting this fic; all your lovely comments and kudos have really been a light in an otherwise pretty dark year for me. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and a restful break to all regardless of celebrations/faith. Stay safe, be happy, and I hope 2021 brings nicer things for all of us <3
> 
> Now, enjoy!

Harry tucked his knees up against his chest, leaning into George’s side as the two of them watched the clock on the nightstand tick closer to midnight.

“I don’t know why I still do this,” he muttered, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ve had people to celebrate my birthday with for years now.” He was no longer the little boy alone in the cupboard, greeting July 31st with a sad smile and a fervent wish that this year, something would be different.

George kissed his temple. “It’s tradition, love,” he pointed out. “I like it. I get to be the first one to wish you happy birthday,” he teased, making Harry roll his eyes.

“You’d be the first even if we went to bed like normal people,” he pointed out. He’d been living at the flat fulltime with the twins since he’d graduated his apprenticeship with Poppy — since he’d walked the stage alongside his friends graduating with their NEWT results.

Going back to Hogwarts hadn’t been a difficult decision once he’d been offered the healer’s apprenticeship; it let him keep in touch with his friends and yearmates, while still come home to either his godfathers or his boyfriend every night. It gave him something to do while George was busy working, and it gave him something to work towards himself — now he’d graduated, he would be starting as a Junior Healer at St Mungo’s in September, one of the youngest they’d ever had.

“But this way I get to do it twice — now, and when we wake up.” George smirked salaciously. “Unless you’ve got objections?”

Considering George’s way of wishing him happy birthday usually involved at least one spectacular orgasm, Harry had no objections whatsoever. He said as much, and George kissed him.

“I thought so,” he replied, smug. “Now hush, it’s almost time.” He was practically vibrating where he sat, which Harry found a little strange, but he didn’t question it — perhaps George was just thinking about his plans for the surprise birthday party later that Harry wasn’t supposed to know about.

Settling back against his boyfriend, Harry turned his eyes back to the clock, a happy bubble rising in his chest as it got closer to midnight. This little ritual of his might feel childish and unnecessary, but he couldn’t deny it also made him happy — to think about how far he’d come in the last few years. He was a long, long way from being the boy in the cupboard anymore.

“Ten, nine, eight,” George began to count in his ear, breath sending pleasant shivers down Harry’s spine. Harry bit his lip to keep his smile from overtaking his face, watching the numbers tick down, until finally the clock struck midnight, and a tiny, silent firework erupted from the top, spelling out the words ‘ _Happy Birthday Harry!’_. He laughed delightedly, only for the sound to catch in his throat when a second firework went off, similar to the first, but spelling out different words entirely.

‘ _Marry me?’_

He snapped around to look at George, eyes going wide when he saw a dark purple velvet ring box in the redhead’s hand. George’s fingers shook as he flipped the box open, revealing a gorgeous platinum ring engraved with delicate runes, studded with tiny diamonds around the whole band.

“I don’t know if you remember,” George began softly, voice trembling. “After you killed Voldemort, when you came to the hospital wing — I was so relieved you were okay, so _amazed_ by everything you’d done, I— I asked you to marry me. And you said—“

“Ask me again when I’m old enough,” Harry finished for him. Of course he remembered, vividly — how could he forget the way his heart had leapt at the question, even though he’d assumed George was just swept up in the emotion, that he wasn’t being serious. “George…”

“If you want to wait, that’s fine,” George insisted hurriedly. “Eighteen is still young. But I— I know you, Harry, and I know that no matter what this world throws at us, I want to be by your side when it happens.” He flashed a nervous grin. “Hopefully it’s less dramatic things than the last seven years, but even if it’s not — you’re it for me. You have been since I was a stupid little third year, weirdly fascinated with his little brother’s best mate. Since I fell in love with you when I was fifteen. Since I first kissed you.” His eyes glowed bright in the dim light, the sparks from the fireworks still hovering in the air. “I’m yours, Harry. Forever, if you want that. Whether we get married now, or in five years, or never at all — you’re everything to me, and I don’t want to go a second of your adult life without making it clear that I will love you ’til I die and beyond. So…” He trailed off, glancing down at the ring in his hand. “What d’you think?”

Harry looked down at the ring, then looked up at George — his beautiful freckled face was so full of hope, even with the hint of fear in his eyes, the worry that he was throwing himself out there and it would end badly. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his fingertips tingling, and all he could do was grab George’s face and pull him into a hard kiss. George made a muffled sound of surprise, but kissed back earnestly, and when they parted the redhead looked dazed.

“How soon can we get married?” Harry blurted, not wanting George to think for a second that his answer was anything other than a resounding, enthusiastic yes. “I don’t wait to wait. I want to be your husband.” The word felt perfect on his lips, and George blinked at him, before a smile started to creep up on him.

“Really?” Harry nodded. George beamed at him. “Well, I, uh— about that, actually.” He glanced to the side in the way he did when he was about to own up to a prank. “Y’know that surprise birthday party you think I don’t know that you already know about?” Harry nodded, perplexed. George bit his lip. “Well… it’s not actually a birthday party. Not really. It’s kind of — a wedding? If you want it to be?” Harry’s jaw dropped, but George carried on hastily. “I didn’t tell the whole family,” he assured. “In case you didn’t want to. But Fred and Mum helped, and Moony and Padfoot, and Bill put me in touch with the same minister who did his wedding. All everyone else knows is that they should wear their best dress robes, and come to Hogwarts before noon.”

His eyes met Harry’s hopefully. “Harry James Potter,” he declared, steadying himself, “you are the love of my life, and the other half of the part of my soul that isn’t attached to Fred’s — would you do me the absolute honour of becoming my husband… in about twelve hours?” He held up the ring box with a shaky smile.

Harry could hardly breathe, emotions welling up in his throat — but that didn’t stop him reaching for the ring, nodding vehemently. “Yes,” he gasped out eventually, tears leaking from his eyes. “Fuck, George, _yes_ , I want to marry you, today.”

George almost dropped the box in shock, but he quickly regained his composure, fumbling for the ring and sliding it onto Harry’s finger. It fit perfectly, the metal quickly warming against his skin. Harry couldn’t stop staring at it. They were _engaged_.

“I need to get you a ring,” he realised suddenly, eyes going wide. “Fuck, is there enough time? And dress robes! I don’t have any good enough to get _married_ in, George, I—“ He was cut off by a firm kiss, and when they parted George was chuckling.

“Relax, love. I’ve got it all covered,” he assured. “Sirius has your wedding robes. Fred’s holding on to a ring that matches that one for me. I told you; everything is sorted. We just have to show up, say our vows, and snog in front of all our friends and family.” He squeezed Harry’s hands. “Happy birthday, my gorgeous fiancé.”

The delight on his face at using that word was obvious, and Harry briefly thought that it was a shame they’d be getting married so soon, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy calling George his _fiancé_ for very long. But, he thought, then he’d get to call George his _husband_ , and that was so much better.

The empty ring box clattered to the floor as Harry tackled George, pinning him down against the mattress with a predatory light in his eyes. “What time do we have to be at Hogwarts?” he asked, running his fingers up George’s bare chest. The redhead swallowed tightly.

“I told Fred we’d be there at eleven. Ceremony starts at noon.”

“Good.” Harry leaned down, kissing a path up all his favourite freckles on George’s sternum, eventually pausing with his nose pressed to the older man’s. “That means we’ve got plenty of time to fuck as an engaged couple, and still have a good night’s sleep, then go get married and have a great time and come home and fuck as _husbands_.”

George’s eyes darkened, one of his hands reaching for the vial of lube on the nightstand. “You’re full of the best ideas, Potter,” he declared.

“That’ll be Potter-Weasley to you, soon,” Harry retorted impishly. George sucked in a sharp breath, and Harry saw the bulge in his boxers twitch.

“Which way did you want?” George offered, holding out the lube questioningly. Harry smirked.

“I want you to fuck me,” he declared brazenly, smirk widening when George whimpered. “Then, I want to get some sleep, and I want to wake up and fuck you so hard you’ll be seeing stars right up to the moment I put a ring on your finger and claim you forever.” He smiled sweetly, hand resting on George’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump excitedly with every word. “How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” George breathed. He sat up, pulling Harry into a desperate kiss. “Fucking perfect, Merlin, _you’re_ so perfect, I’m so lucky.”

“Save it for your vows,” Harry teased, already wriggling out of his boxers. When they were both naked, Harry on his back with a pillow under his hips, George settled between his legs and leaned up for a kiss.

“I love you so much,” he breathed reverently. Harry kissed back, heart soaring.

“I love you too.” He grinned suddenly, a thought popping into his head. “Merlin, if I could go back and tell twelve year-old Harry that he’d be marrying you on his eighteenth birthday, his poor little head would explode.” He’d been so incredibly infatuated, even then.

George grinned back. “Gonna be one hell of a story to tell the kids, hey?”

The confidence in his words, the fact that he didn’t even question that one day they would have children — Harry didn’t think it was possible to love the man any more than he did at that moment.

Then George slipped a slick finger inside him, and proceeded to prove that wrong many, many times over before they eventually passed out from exhaustion.

Fuck, noon felt so far away.

.-.-.-.

They arrived at Hogwarts a little after eleven, with damp hair and a slight hitch in George’s walk, and a lovebite peeking above Harry’s t-shirt collar. Sirius was the one to greet them, and he eyed them over, laughing. “You two are a fucking mess,” he declared, reaching out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Happy birthday, pup.”

“It’s my birthday,” Harry retorted unrepentantly. “ _And_ my wedding day. I’m allowed to be a mess, as long as I clean up in time for photos.” His wedding day — he would never get tired of saying that.

Sirius chuckled. “True enough,” he agreed, glancing fondly down at his own wedding ring. The laws on werewolves marrying had been repealed within the first week of Minister Amelia Bones taking office, and the pair had married in a small ceremony just days after. Harry distinctly remembered Sirius with a far bigger mark on his neck, begging Harry to heal it up before he had to walk down the aisle.

“Where’s Moony?” Harry asked, looking around. They’d flooed into the man’s rooms — he had regained the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher once Umbridge was officially fired, and held it ever since. While he and Sirius technically still lived at Grimmauld, they were more often than not found at the castle, especially now Harry had properly moved in with George.

“Out in the grounds, helping set up. And no, you can’t see it,” Sirius declared, shooting a spell at the windows to obscure the view outside. “You also need to say goodbye to each other, for a little while. It’s tradition. Harry, your robes are in my room; George, yours are in Harry’s — Fred’s waiting for you there.” It was technically the spare room, but it was occupied by Harry more than anyone else in the last few years.

Harry pouted, turning to kiss George. “See you soon, love,” he murmured, hugging George tight.

“Don’t miss me too much,” George teased in reply, kissing him once more and crossing to Harry’s room. Sirius wrapped an arm around his godson’s shoulders, leading him into the master bedroom.

“It’s a good thing you said yes, pup,” Sirius remarked. “Would’ve been a really weird birthday party if you hadn’t, what with the formal robes and the wedding cake and whatnot.”

Harry snorted. “As if I’d ever have said no.” He’d have married George the day after he killed Voldemort if it had been legal.

Sirius opened the wardrobe and pulled out a set of robes, and Harry’s heart clenched. They were _beautiful_. Silk-smooth and a muted silver colour, the hem was embroidered with runes in bright purple thread. The Potter family crest was on the left breast — and just below that, slightly smaller, the Black family crest. Harry’s breath hitched as he reached out a finger to touch it.

“You’re the heir to the family, and my son in all but blood,” Sirius told him, voice rough with emotion. “I’d be honoured if you’d wear this crest to get married. The Black family… it’s meant a lot of bad things, this last century or so. But between you and me — and Andy and Tonks, of course — I think we’re well on the way to redeeming it. I think it’ll do some good to honour it today, if you’d like.”

“I— I’d love to, Sirius,” Harry assured softly. “It’s perfect.” His fingers moved to the crest above; the Potter crest. The crest his father would’ve worn on his own wedding robes, over twenty years ago now. “I wish they could be here to see this.”

Over the years, Harry had made peace with all the things his parents would never see. It was a long list, and he couldn’t spend all his time hurting over what might have been. But Merlin, if he could only have them back for one thing, he wished it could be his wedding to the most amazing man in the world.

“I know, kiddo,” Sirius said, hugging him close. “But they’re here in their own way.” He tapped Harry’s chest, right over his heart. “And they’d be so bloody happy for you. Old Prongsy would be glowing with pride about his son marrying a prankster,” he joked.

Harry tried to imagine it; his dad gushing about his new son-in-law to anyone who would listen, his mum helping Molly keep everyone in line, both of them walking down the aisle with him. His heart ached.

“You and Remus will walk down the aisle with me, won’t you?” he asked hopefully. Sirius kissed his forehead.

“We’d love nothing more in the world, Harry,” he assured. “Now come on; let’s get you all pretty for your _future husband_.”

.-.

The next half-hour was a whirlwind for Harry; he got dressed in his wedding robes, and Sirius helped him attempt to tame his hair. Remus appeared partway through, nearly crying at the sight of Harry — and then actually crying when Harry asked him to accompany him down the aisle. Molly ducked in for a brief moment, looking resplendent in her own dress robes, and she seemed to have given up fighting the tears a while ago if the handkerchief in her hand was any indication.

At last, he was being escorted by Sirius and Remus through the castle, both men dressed handsomely in shades of blue. Harry was practically skipping on the way down, eager to get things moving. George had already made his way down with Fred, according to Harry’s godfathers. As the elder of the pair, he would be waiting at the altar for Harry.

At the castle doors, the trio drew to a halt, and Harry eyed the two older men in confusion.

“The altar is set up by the lake,” Remus informed him. “We said we’d wait here until they’re ready for you. And — I have one more thing, for both of you. All of us.”

Sirius seemed just as surprised as Harry, as his husband pulled a long, narrow box from his robe pocket, which was clearly charmed bigger inside. Remus shifted anxiously from foot to foot. “I’m sure Sirius has already said as much, cub, but I want you to know that we love you so very much, and you will always be our son — no matter how old you get, or what happens, you’re our boy.”

“You’re gonna make me cry, Moony,” Harry complained, earning a weak chuckle.

“Good,” Remus teased playfully, before sobering. “I know Lily and James would love to be here to share this day with you. And somewhere, they are. But I thought, just a little extra way to carry them with us on this special day…” He removed the lid from the box, and Harry gasped. Inside lay three white lilies, the stems attached to three identical silver pin-clasps, shaped like little stag antlers.

“Oh,” Sirius breathed softly. Remus smiled.

“It’s not the same as having them here, I know—“

“Moony, it’s perfect,” Harry enthused, reaching out with reverent hands to pick up one of the lilies. With Sirius’ help, he affixed it to his robes on the right side, opposite his family crests. Then Sirius and Remus pinned lilies on each other, directly over their hearts. Seeing them there made Harry’s spirit soar — it was the perfect way to combine both his sets of parents, for all of them to accompany him into this next stage of his life.

All of a sudden, a blur of silver dashed towards them; it was Fred’s fox patronus. “We’re ready when you are,” the patronus declared, before vanishing.

Harry felt his heart leap to his throat, his stomach squirming with nerves. Sirius grinned at him.

“Let’s go get you hitched, shall we?”

The three of them linked arms, and began to walk.

Harry almost tripped over his own feet when he saw the crowd by the lake. Rows and rows of silver chairs ties with purple ribbons, each occupied by someone he cared about — the Weasleys and Hermione; Luna, Neville and his other school friends; the whole Gryffindor quidditch team; Hagrid in a huge chair near the back, already crying into an enormous handkerchief. Dumbledore and McGonagall beside him, along with Poppy and most of the other professors; even Snape, who Harry had become cordial if not somewhat friendly with during his apprenticeship. The Delacours were there along with Viktor Krum, and the Order, and Bill’s Gringotts team. Charlie had come back from Romania for the occasion, a fresh burn scar creeping across his jaw. All of Harry’s friends, all the important people in his life, gathered here for him. Even those who had come for George were familiar to him — their lives had been twined for so long, it was hard to find a person who could say they were only here for one half of the wedding party.

And, best of all — not a single journalist in sight.

They drew closer, soft music playing from an enchanted string quartet on the shore. The aisle was laid with silver fabric and strewn with white, blue and purple flowers, leading up to an ornate silver arch wound with flowers and ribbons and sparkling lights, over the raised platform of the altar.

Under that arch stood George Weasley, and Harry’s heart lurched.

George’s wedding robes were dark purple, embroidered with silver to form the same runes that Harry’s held. The Weasley family crest was displayed proudly on his chest, the robes accentuating his muscular form. His eyes were fixed on Harry, his mouth ever so slightly agape — he looked like he was staring at the most incredible thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Harry knew how he felt.

“You ready, kiddo?” Sirius whispered in his ear, snapping his attention away from the redhead. Harry beamed at him, and nodded. He was _so_ ready.

With Sirius on his left and Remus on his right, he walked down the aisle in time with the music, the guests standing to watch him pass. He could see several people dabbing at their eyes already. His own emotions were too jumbled to cry — all he could do was smile at George and put one foot in front of the other.

Beside George, Fred and Arthur stood in blue robes similar to Sirius and Remus’, and both were beaming. Fred winked at Harry, giving a pointed glance at his twin and then wiggling his eyebrows. Harry bit back a snicker.

“Hey,” George greeted softly, once Harry arrived at the altar. “You look stunning.”

“So do you,” Harry breathed in reply. He could hardly believe this gorgeous man was about to become his _husband_.

Sirius and Remus unlinked their arms from Harry’s, and in turn they hugged him, each pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then a kiss to their fingers which they touched to the lily and antlers at his chest. “We love you, kiddo,” Sirius whispered. “And we love that man of yours. Go get him.”

“You deserve this,” Remus added. “This, and all the joy he’ll bring you in your life to come.”

Harry nodded, kissing each of them on the cheek, and then turned around to accept George’s hand, stepping up onto the platform.

.-.-.

Several hours later, if you had asked Harry how his wedding ceremony went, he couldn’t tell you. He couldn’t tell you the words he gave in his vows, or what George said in return, or what the minister had been like — all of that had blurred in his memory. The only thing he could remember was a pair of brown eyes shining with more love than he ever thought he’d see directed at him. That, and the warm flood of magic as they were officially bound together for life, allowing George’s magic to nestle in beside his own in his heart, where it belonged.

Now, the party was in full swing — there were literal fountains of champagne and butterbeer and firewhiskey, a constant supply of fireworks overhead, a large dance-floor and upbeat music, and a long table groaning under the weight of all the food. The cake had been cut — after Harry spent at least half an hour admiring the masterpiece Molly had made for them, insisting it was too beautiful to eat — he and George had danced for the first time as spouses, and there had been several embarrassing speeches courtesy of George’s siblings and Harry’s godfathers.

He was married.

A familiar muscled arm slid around his waist, and he grinned as lips pressed to his cheek. “Hey there, husband,” George greeted, practically giddy as he said the word that made Harry’s heart flutter. “Brought you a drink.”

Harry accepted the flute of champagne and took a sip, leaning his head against George’s chest. His gaze was on the dance-floor, which was packed with people. Molly and Arthur, several drinks in, danced with Bill and Fleur’s daughter between them, the almost-one year-old both confused and delighted by the whole affair. Nearby, Bill and Fleur themselves danced slowly, taking advantage of the child-free time. Fred danced with Angelina, Luna with Neville, and at the edge of the dance-floor Sirius and Remus were wrapped up in one another like the whole world had disappeared. Their own wedding had been small and rushed and informal, and Harry was glad the pair could celebrate with him like this, the way they hadn’t for themselves. They’d been too keen to just get married while the law was on their side to think about a reception or anything like that.

“Harry, look.” George nudged him in the side, gesturing discreetly towards one of the tables. Harry frowned at first, then went wide-eyed — Hermione was sat at the table, and Ron was approaching with a look of determination on his face.

Harry held his breath as Ron stepped up to Hermione, offering his hand. He said something Harry had no hope of hearing above the music, but whatever it was made Hermione’s jaw drop. She stared at him for a long moment, long enough that even Harry was beginning to get anxious, before she grabbed his hand, yanked herself to her feet, and planted a firm kiss on the redhead’s lips.

Ron looked utterly gobsmacked for several seconds after they parted, but eventually he pulled his brain back into gear and grinned at Hermione, saying something that had her smacking him gently on the arm. That didn’t stop her from accompanying him onto the dance-floor, stepping into his embrace like it was exactly where she belonged, swaying to the music with her head on the tall redhead’s chest.

“About bloody time,” Harry muttered, grinning. He’d been watching them for _years_ , waiting for one of them to get a clue.

“If only we’d gotten married sooner,” George teased.

Harry took another sip of champagne — he’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had by now, but it was definitely enough that he could feel the bubbles all the way down to his toes. Though that could’ve just been his joy; he felt like he could fly without a broom, his heart was so full of happiness. He turned to his husband, looping his arms around the taller man’s neck. “Thank you,” he declared. George cocked his head curiously.

“What for, love?”

“This — all of it. This whole day has been perfect. You pulled it all together and I didn’t suspect a _thing_ , and everyone was here, and it’s been such a great time, and you look so _fucking_ gorgeous I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

George grinned at him, cheeks flushing faintly.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you that champagne,” he joked. Harry grinned.

“But you did, because you’re the _best_ husband, and I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” George replied, arms winding around Harry’s waist. They swayed together, almost dancing, in time with the music. “I’m glad you liked it. I worried for a bit that you’d think I’d sort-of taken over the whole thing — I didn’t know if you’d want to be involved in the planning or anything. Fred told me to quit being daft and trust my gut.”

“Smart man, your brother,” Harry said wisely. George winked.

“And yet you picked this twin. No refunds,” he added with a laugh. Harry leaned up to kiss him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised. “Seriously, though; I love everything about today. All I wanted was to marry you as soon as possible — I’d have signed papers in a Ministry registry office. This… this was better than anything I’d ever imagined.” When it came to planning a wedding, Harry wouldn’t have even known where to _start_. George had taken all that into his own hands and somehow managed to pick everything perfectly, without ever letting Harry know that anything was amiss. Harry had been utterly convinced he was going to have a normal birthday party, right up until George told him the truth. “Just goes to show how well you know me,” he mused. “You gave me my dream wedding and I didn’t even know I wanted it.”

George preened, his relief visible. “I just wanted to make you happy.”

“You do,” Harry assured him. He could hardly contain the happiness this man brought to him. “Every day, love.” He grinned suddenly, mischief in his gaze. “Speaking of making me happy — how much longer before we’re allowed to leave?”

George’s gaze darkened. “It’s our wedding,” He pointed out. “We can leave whenever we want.” He glanced at his watch. “We should probably leave this lot to it, though. Go back to the flat. Fred’s staying at Angie’s tonight.”

Arousal prickled across Harry’s skin, his brain already stuck on the thought of peeling George out of those incredible robes. “Let’s go, then.” He grabbed George’s hand, intent on dragging him to the edge of the apparition wards, but George didn’t move.

“We should say our goodbyes, first,” he pointed out. “We won’t get to see everyone for a little bit.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Well…” George drawled, smile threatening to overtake his face. “Usually, after people get married, they go on this little thing called a honeymoon…”

Harry gaped at him. “George, what...?”

“For the next month, you and I will be touring Europe,” the redhead revealed. “Everything’s covered at the shop, you don’t start at the hospital until September — we’ll start in Amsterdam and work our way around.” He was grinning at the utter shock on Harry’s face. Harry could hardly wrap his head around it — a whole _month_? A tour of Europe?

“How the hell did you manage to swing that?”

“Little help from family — Bill and Fleur, Charlie, even Viktor gave me some good recommendations. Ron’s gonna cover some shifts at the shop, and we’ve got enough new releases lined up to cover the summer without me there.” George’s face softened, and he leaned in for a kiss. “You deserve to be spoiled rotten, my love, and you’ll get all that and more on this trip.”

All Harry could do was gape at him. Not only had George gone to the trouble of organising the perfect wedding to surprise Harry, but he’d arranged an amazing honeymoon too! “I don’t deserve you,” he said once he could form words again. George winked at him.

“Well, you’re stuck with me now, so tough,” he teased, sticking his tongue out. Harry’s gaze zeroed in on the redhead’s mouth, pulse picking up.

“You’ve done all this just for me,” he murmured, thumb stroking the nape of George’s neck. “I think it’s time I did a little something for you in return, hmm?”

George’s gaze darkened as he leaned into the touch. Then he coughed awkwardly, glancing around, remembering where they were. “Let’s start making our goodbyes, yeah?” he urged quickly. Harry grinned at him.

“The sooner we get home, the better,” he agreed.

They had a wedding night to enjoy, and a honeymoon to pack for, and then a whole month to spend seeing new things and revelling in each other’s company. They hadn’t so much as taken a weekend away in the entire time they’d dated, both too busy with work and education and family. Harry couldn’t wait to have nothing but George to focus on, and nothing to do but whatever took their fancy.

And after that, well — they had their whole future ahead of them, together. And it was looking pretty damn bright, from where Harry was standing.


End file.
